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A STORY OF THE NORSEMEN IN PENNSYLVANIA 


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OLEA 


A STORY OF THE NORSEMEN IN PENN- 
SYLVANIA 


BY 

SAMUEL HAVEN GLASSMIRE 

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Ube IRnfcberbocfeer press 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 


Copyright, 1913 

BY 

SAMUEL HAVEN GLASSMIRE 


All rights reserved 



# /.to 

©CL i 3 5 0 S 5 4 


MY GERMAN-NORWEGIAN “FRIENDS 


IN THE FOOTHILLS OF THE ALLEGHENIES, 
THIS TALE OF THEIR INTERESTING COUNTRY IS, 
WITH MANY HAPPY MEMORIES, 
RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 


BY THE AUTHOR 



FOREWORD 


It is not presumed that this little narrative, half 
history and half fiction, will rise to the dignity of 
historical romance. 

Yet if such it might be called, it would be well to 
say, in advance, that the theme of the story is taken 
from the ill-fated attempt at Norwegian colonization 
in Pennsylvania, made by the famous musician-patriot, 
Ole Bull, in the year 1852. 

Historically, the main facts in connection with the 
coming of the Norsemen to Potter County, as related 
herein, are substantially correct ; the sketches of the 
quaint Norwegian and German settlements, and the 
relatively accurate setting of the chief incidents 
described, will be easily recognized by those familiar 
with the topography and historical associations of 
this particular region. 

The life of Ole Bull is too well known to need fur- 
ther comment here, and I gratefully acknowledge my 
indebtedness to Mrs. Sara G. Bull’s Memoir , from 
which I have taken numerous facts concerning the 
life of the great artist. His doubtful actual residence 
at his forest castle in Pennslyvania is here made the 
subject of fiction. 

The love story of Karl and Olea, the relations 
existing between the Germans and Norwegians, and 
the myth of the “ Wild Boy,” are all purely fictitious; 
and an apology is due to those good friends of mine, 


VI 


Foreword 


to whom I dedicate the story, for the liberty taken in 
attempting to weave a little romance into the familiar 
history of a country they and I so well know and so 
highly esteem. 

S. H. G. 


March , 1913. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — The Watershed in Potter County t 

II. — The Ruins of the Castle . . 5 

III. — Ole Bull, the Musician-Patriot . 12 

IV. — The Coming of the Norsemen . 19 

V. — Olea 26 

VI. — The Coming of the Germans . 30 

VII. — The Meeting on Little Kettle 

Creek 38 

VIII. — The Last Party at Ole Bull’s 

Castle 42 

IX. — The Hicks of the Pond-Holes . 48 

X. — The Night Raid . . . .57 

XI.— The “ Wild Boy ” .... 64 

XII. — The Quest of the “Hog’s Back” . 68 

XIII. — The Lure of the East Fork . 

vii 


74 


viii Contents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XIV. — The Failure of the Colony . . 79 

XV. — The Return 86 

XVI. — The Hermit’s Home . . .91 

L’Envoi 95 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing 

PAGE 

Ole B. Bull .... Frontispiece V 


Ruins of Ole Bull’s Castle Wall . 

12 

Stone-House at Walhalla 

• i 9 

Old Coudersport Hotel 

26 

Old Oleona Hotel .... 

30 

From a Photograph 


Germania of To-day .... 

. 38 

From a Photograph 


Ole Bull 

• 48 

Drawing by Darley 


Ole Bull 

86 


Photogravure 


IX 


OLEA 


A Story of the Norsemen in 
Pennsylvania 


CHAPTER I 

THE WATERSHED IN POTTER COUNTY 

T HE mountain regions of northern Pennsyl- 
vania have a romantic history which is at 
once graphic and interesting. 

Many old legends of the northern tier are full 
of the rare charm which is associated only with 
the silent grandeur of forest and stream at the 
headwaters of the Allegheny, the Genesee, and 
Susquehanna. 

It is in this particular country, in the County 
of Potter, that some low ranges of the Alleghenies 
and a few scattered hills, abruptly coming together, 
seem to almost meet in a comparatively small 
area ; and the tableland, gradually sloping in three 
general directions, thus makes of this one county 
a natural watershed for a vast expanse of terri- 


2 


Olea 


tory — giving it the unique distinction of being the 
only county on the continent which contains 
within its borders, and, in places, within a mile 
or two of each other, distinct tributaries of three 
immense Atlantic basins. 

In the most northern of these foothills the 
beautiful Genesee River finds its source, and, 
flowing northward across the Empire State, 
reaches the Great Lakes, and finally mingles its 
waters with the mighty St. Lawrence, in its east- 
ward flow to the ocean. 

At a tiny spring in the same plateau the majestic 
Allegheny River heads, and, winding southward 
and northward and southward again, increased 
by mountain rivulets as it goes, crosses the Key- 
stone State to join the Monongahela from the 
south, forming the great Ohio; which, in turn, 
unites with the muddy volume of the Mississippi 
in its onward course to the Gulf of Mexico. 

In the southeastern comer of the county, a 
section of the old Jersey Shore Turnpike (built in 
the year 1848), which follows the narrow dividing 
ridge or “ hog’s back” between Cherry Springs 
and New Bergen, roughly marks the headwaters 
of three separate tributaries of the Susquehanna, 
that grand and picturesque river of Pennsylvania. 

North of the Turnpike, a mile or two from the 
clearing where the old “halfway house” or Cherry 
Springs tavern once stood, and far down in the 
forest valley, the West Branch of Pine Creek finds 
its subterranean sources in the unexplored ravines 


THe Watershed in Potter County 3 

of the Sunken Branch; and the main channel of 
Pine Creek burrows deep through and between 
towering ranges of the Alleghenies before it joins 
the Susquehanna down near Jersey Shore. 

South of the old “Pike,” and only a few miles 
from the “ Springs,” the East Fork of the Sinna- 
mahoning is formed by the mountain brooks from 
each side of the valley; farther south, at the forks 
of the road, the famous little Wild Boy comes 
tumbling out of the dark recesses of the forest to 
join it on the right; and this East Fork, uniting 
with the First Fork and the South Branch (one 
who intimately knows the length of this little 
stream, from far above where it unites with Moore’s 
Run, cannot forget the singular charm of the 
lovely, lonely South Branch), contributes to the 
beautiful Sinnamahoning Creek, which, in turn, 
is joined by Cross Fork, the Kettle Creeks, and 
grand old Pine Creek — Potter County waters 
all — swelling the great West Branch of the Sus- 
quehanna, as it pierces and twists through the 
Alleghenies and floods far out across Pennsylvania, 
until, at last, its pure mountain waters are mingled 
with the Atlantic at the bay of Chesapeake. 

The third important tributary of the Sinnama- 
honing and Susquehanna, in southeastern Potter, 
flowing through a country full of historic associa- 
tions and interest, is known at its headwaters by 
the name of Little Kettle Creek. 

From somewhere below and back of the turn- 
pike, and following the sloping ravines of the 


4 


Olea 


dividing ridge, small mountain rivulets unite to 
form this little stream, winding through the now 
almost deserted village of New Bergen and on past 
the abandoned settlement at Oleona, in the valley 
just below, where it joins the main branch; and 
Kettle Creek flows on down the historic valley, 
past the site of New Norway and the old stone 
house at Walhalla, — called Valhalla, the “last 
valley” or “heaven,” in the Norse mythology of 
Odin and Thor. 

These names are all famous in local history as 
the homes of those unfortunate Norwegian colo- 
nists, who, years ago, came and named them in 
honor of their “old” Bergen and Norway, and to 
commemorate their founding by their intrepid 
leader — the world-famous musician-patriot, Ole 
Bull. 

Opposite Walhalla, where Ole Bull Run empties 
into Kettle Creek, and high up on the mountain- 
side, on the crest of a precipitous bluff overlooking 
the quaint settlements nestled in the picturesque 
valley below, Ole Bull built his famous castle, the 
crumbling walls of which can still be seen from 
the distant highway, standing out like a silent 
sentinel — witnessing to the failure and tragedy 
of its past. 


CHAPTER II 


THE RUINS OF THE CASTLE 

T HESE mountain regions of Potter County were 
once covered with dense forests of hemlock 
and pine. Over these timbered hills and barren 
windfalls the native black bear and the graceful 
red deer roamed at will, undisturbed in all their 
mad abandon to the law of the jungles — true 
monarchs of the forest primeval ! 

And it is nature’s own wilderness to-day. The 
wild lands, stripped of their heavy first-growth 
timber, are now being covered with the second- 
growth hardwoods, with which nature seeks to 
replenish her denuded domains — somewhat after 
the fashion of an economical dame. And the 
deer and bear still find a home in the slashings and 
on the barrens, which are now becoming wooded 
and majestic again in a new verdure of maple and 
beech. 

The mountain brooks once also abounded with 
speckled trout, to the delight of the native fisher- 
man, and many are the stories of woodland and 
stream which are still told ’round the camp-fires 
beside Sinnamahoning waters. These streams 
5 


6 


Olea 


have lost nothing of their crystal clearness or 
pristine beauty, despite the ravages of the wood- 
man’s axe along their shady banks, and the 
speckled brook trout thrive there still. 

Though much of the first wild enchantment may 
be lost and gone from the woods, the zeal of the 
sportsman and the joy of the nature-lover are not 
less keen there to-day than of old. 

It was late in the leafy month of June, when 
trout fishing is at its best, and when the forest 
beauty of Potter County is seen in all its gorgeous 
freshness, when we last camped on Little Kettle 
Creek. 

Sebastian and I, dressed in high hip boots, 
corduroy trousers, fisherman’s jackets and slouch 
hats, left camp early one morning, intending to 
put in a good day on the stream, and, towards 
evening, to visit the ruins of the famous Ole Bull 
castle. 

Sebastian knew this country and its history well, 
for he was, indeed, a descendant of one of the few 
remaining Norwegian families of the ill-fated 
colony at Walhalla, and three generations of his 
family had lived in the old “ stone house” on the 
banks of Kettle Creek. 

It was glorious sport that day ! The trout were 
jumping well for the first time in several days; 
as we changed our flies, we found them taking the 
“Great Dun” and the “General Hooker” (Sebas- 
tian’s favorite flies), and not long after midday we 
had our reed baskets nearly full of beautiful 


THe IVuins of tKe Castle 


7 


speckled trout, and were somewhat tired and 
hungry after our jaunt over the slippery rocks and 
driftwood along the stream. 

We sat down on the shady bank and took our 
fly rods apart, and dressed our catch, putting 
some fresh grass and leaves on the top of our 
baskets (and, be it confessed, a little bunch at the 
bottom also — after the manner of a true and tried 
fisherman in these parts) . Then we ate our lunch 
and smoked our pipes and rested beside the rip- 
pling waters, listening to the shrill notes of the 
blackbird as his bright wings flashed above the 
grasses, — dozing in the heavy summer air, fragrant 
with the perfume of the pink azalea, until, at 
length, the sun began to sink toward the western 
mountains. 

Knowing my desire to see the castle before dark, 
Sebastian soon arose and led the way up the 
hemlock ridge which rose abruptly on our right. 
After a toilsome climb up the steep mountain side, 
which was covered with large rocks and fallen 
trunks of trees, we reached the huge mountain 
spur, projecting out and overlooking the valley, 
and stood, at last, very much exhausted, before 
the crumbling ruins of the old castle. 

Alarmed at our sudden approach, a fluffy 
partridge, strumming on a log near-by, darted, 
with a rumbling, trumpet sound, quickly down the 
mountain side. A noisy chipmunk, perched upon 
the moss-covered wall of the castle, with a pierc- 
ing “chir-r-r-p”, as if to warn us that his domain 


8 


Olea 


was being intruded upon, scampered down the 
broken stairway and disappeared through the 
rotten floor. Far above us in the heavens, poised 
lazily ’gainst the evening sky, a keen-eyed hawk 
circled dreamily around the cliff, and, with a 
gentle flap of his wings, floated, in a widening 
circle, far down the valley and vanished as a speck 
in the distance. 

A profound silence, so peculiar to a summer 
twilight in the mountains, fell ’round the deserted 
castle, and hung over the mountain cliffs, and 
spread across the narrow valley which wound so 
peacefully at their feet. Not an echo nor a rustle 
of the gentle wind among the trees broke the 
enchanting solitude of the place. The sun, drop- 
ping behind the twin peaks towering above us, 
threw miniature somber side-lights between the 
giant hemlocks, and the lengthening fantastic 
shadows cast a weird halo over the panorama 
below. 

How fascinating is the spell which nature, 
sometimes, in a burst of simple grandeur, and in a 
subtle and mysterious way, throws over and 
around the scenes of past achievement, as in a 
gentle benediction ! 

Climbing lightly up the moss-covered battle- 
ment, the projecting stones of which, from the 
action of the rains and storms, had formed irregular 
steps, we reached the top of the crumbling wall 
of the castle. 

Our position commanded a view far up and 


THe Ruins of tHe Castle 9 

down the picturesque valley of the Kettle Creek. 
Quaint curved-roofed log houses with their out- 
side stone chimneys, deserted and dilapidated, 
could be seen here and there in the distance; the 
old Oleona hotel, then owned by the Olsons, but 
which was formerly the “Lion Tent” where Ole 
Bull gave his first reception in ’52, stood at the 
“comers”; the village general store, for so many 
years conducted by that courtly old prince of 
Norse hospitality, Henrik Andresen. (who came 
in ’52 as Ole Bull’s private secretary), and which 
was long afterwards run by his estimable wife, 
Mary, stood there at the turn of the road just 
below; the abandoned little buildings where 
sixteen families once lived at New Norway, with 
the schoolhouse and church, and Sebastian’s old 
“stone house” at Walhalla directly across the 
stream, which had since been rebuilt from the 
stone and lumber procured from the dismantled 
castle — all these landmarks of Norwegian coloni- 
zation rose indistinctly into view as we traced the 
crooked wagon-road and the course of the rapid 
stream, winding in and out along the narrow valley 
between the hemlock hills. 

Ole Bull’s fortress-like castle was conceived, no 
doubt, to resemble the famous promontory known 
in Norway as “Ole Bull’s Lookout” — at Lyse- 
kloster on the fjord of the Norland. 

That old estate was a curious relic of the eleventh 
century, whose medieval turrets were afterwards 
embellished with the crest of the Bull family 


10 


Olea 


(“Bellum vita, vita Bellum”), and was located 
near his boyhood’s home on the Island of Osteroen. 
This weirdly picturesque environment of his child- 
hood undoubtedly became Ole Bull’s inspiration 
in modeling his wilderness possessions in Pennsyl- 
vania after the stupendous proportions of the 
citadels on the calm, deep, blue fjords of the 
mystic land of his birth. 

The conception of building an impregnable 
fortress overlooking his vast domains, at least well 
illustrated the essentially Viking quality in his 
romantic character. 

In architecture the two-story framework of the 
building was not elaborate in design, but was of 
the light and fantastic order, of which so much is 
to be seen in the old country. The roof was a 
four-squared design, and wide porches surrounded 
the building. The interior was finished in carved 
natural wood, and the walls were adorned with 
beautiful tapestries and heavy inlaid papering 
fabric, with quaint and curious Norse designs. 

These artistic decorations had now long since 
been removed, and the embellished woodwork 
hacked and carried away, leaving the immense 
stone wall, which marked the edge of the bluff, 
dismantled and tottering. 

In that summer twilight, Sebastian and I, 
seated on the rough ledge which had once been 
surrounded by a rustic railing carved from the 
native wood, and with our backs against the moss- 
grown column of stone, fell into a dreamy contem- 


THe Ruins of tHe Castle 


ii 


plation of the fascinating scene before us, — our 
thoughts wandering back over the interesting 
history of this isolated place, and memories of the 
romantic stories which have gathered ’round these 
castle walls came back to us with all the solemn 
irony of the years. 

It was then that Sebastian told me the tragic 
story of the coming of the Norsemen, and the le- 
gend of Olea, the beautiful daughter of the colony. 


CHAPTER III 


OLE BULL — THE MUSICIAN-PATRIOT 

M AGNANIMOUS indeed had been the pur- 
poses and impulses of Ole Bornemann Bull 
in his scheme of Scandinavian colonization in 
Pennsylvania. 

This man of genius was a patriotic son of Nor- 
way. Bom of gentle parentage, in the year 1810, 
in the old mist-shrouded city of Bergen, surrounded 
by its seven hills, he had early experienced some- 
thing of the political oppression which at that time, 
and even during the reign of his martial sovereign 
King Karl Johan of Sweden, held in subjection 
the rising Teutonic spirit of liberty in the United 
Kingdom. 

The treaty of Kiel in 1814 had, at last, dissolved 
the union with Denmark, which had existed for 
over four centuries, during which time Norway 
had been shrouded in intellectual darkness. The 
adoption of the Norwegian constitution on the 
memorable 17th of May, 1814, marked the prac- 
tical independence of the nation, and the later 
political union with Sweden, effected under 
Bernadotte, has never since materially impeded 
12 



Ruins of Ole Bull’s Castle Wall 











Ole Bull — The Musician-Patriot 13 

the growth of a national spirit, nor the patriotism 
of the Norsemen. 

In fact these propitious events but heralded in 
a revival of learning and a new nationalism, the 
sentiment of the age giving birth to Norway’s 
greatest poets and artists. The political Eddas 
and Sagas of the golden epoch, from the eleventh 
to the fourteenth centuries, became the literary 
and artistic inspiration of this dawning era, since 
the old ballads, popular melodies, folk-lore and 
legends had been carefully preserved and treasured 
by the common people. 

In his youth Ole Bull had met with many dis- 
. couragements and hardships, while his undaunted 
ambition was ever urging him onward to the per- 
fection of his art. Like Mozart, he was never 
taught to read music, but he early imbibed the 
rules of his art unknowingly. When King Fred- 
erick VI of Denmark once asked him who had 
taught him to play, he answered, “The mountains 
of Norway, your Majesty.” From infancy he 
always fancied he heard nature chant the wild 
and melancholy cadences which inspired his weird 
and original melodies. 

Being a true interpreter of nature, the quality 
of his artistic productions was greatly influenced 
by the environment in which he lived. Trees, 
rocks, stream and mountain, all spoke a language 
which found expression through the strings of his 
instrument. He faithfully imitated the voice of 
nature as she spoke to him in the wind in the trees, 


14 


Olea 


in the rustle of the leaves, the call of the birds, and 
the roar of the waterfalls. This rare ability was 
the distinctive mark of Ole Bull’s great musical 
genius. 

Henrik Arnold Wergeland, the Norwegian poet 
who first gave poetical expression to the glowing 
patriotic enthusiasm for Norse liberty and inde- 
pendence — and was to Norway, in the world of 
letters, what Ole Bull was in the world of music — 
said of him: “The greatest marvel of all was that 
he brought Norway home to the Norsemen. 
Most people knew the folk-songs and dances, but 
were ashamed to admire them. Lifted by him 
into their confidence and love, these homely 
melodies suddenly began to gleam like stars, and 
the people came to feel that they too had jewels 
of their own.” 

But it was Longfellow who immortalized the 
genius of the great musician, in his Tales of the 
Wayside Inn: 

Last the Musician, as he stood 
Illumined by that fire of wood ; 

Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, 

His figure tall and straight and lithe, 

And every feature of his face 
Revealing his Norwegian race; 

A radiance, streaming from within, 

Around his eyes and forehead beamed; 

The angel with the violin, 

Painted by Raphael, he seemed. 


Ole Bull — The Musician-Patriot 15 


And when he played, the atmosphere 
Was filled with magic, and the ear 
Caught echoes of that Harp of Gold, 
Whose music had so weird a sound, 

The hunted stag forgot to bound, 

The leaping rivulet backward rolled, 

The birds came down from bush and tree, 
The dead came from beneath the sea, 

The maiden to the harper’s knee! 


At the early age of twenty-one Ole Bull found 
his way to Paris, the Mecca of all great 
artists. There he soon found himself reduced 
to poverty and sought assistance from his 
friends, — the master-musician, Chopin, assisting 
him in procuring a violin; but soon, however, 
he began to win local distinction as a student 
of the great Paganini, whom he met later, in 
i837 ; 

His fame spread rapidly with the successes of 
his concerts in Switzerland and at Milan, at Venice, 
Naples, and London. At Rome, because of his 
marvelous performances in playing four distinct 
parts on the violin at once (Ole Bull is said to have 
been the only musician in the world who ever 
produced the marvelous effect of four violins in 
unison), the people, and even royalty, hailed 
him as a magician. Everywhere he went on 
the continent he was received with unbounded 
enthusiasm. 

He first found confidence in his own powers at 


i6 


Olea 


Florence, in 1834, an d from Bologna his friends at 
home first received news of his triumphs; he re- 
turned to his native Bergen in 1838, where he was 
joyfully welcomed. 

This “Amphion of the North,” as Hans Chris- 
tian Anderson dubbed him, found his highest 
inspiration and his heart’s religion in the themes 
of the immortal Mozart, and could find no loftier 
expression of human thought than the theme of 
the master’s Requiem. 

Though Ole Bull played at the coronation of 
kings, as he did for William of Germany, and was 
honored with Liszt in London, where together they 
rendered Beethoven’s matchless Kreutzer Sonata , 
his loyal and sympathetic heart was never weaned, 
by public adulation, from his native land. He was 
a zealous patriot, and never forgot his dear “ Gamle 
Norge,” and even long after he became famous he 
always delighted to call himself, “Ole Olson Viol, 
Norse Norman from Norway.” 

Ole Bull first visited America in 1842 and made 
a triumphant tour of the United States, Canada, 
and the West Indies, traveling more than one 
hundred thousand miles, and giving over two 
hundred concerts. 

So great was his popularity in America that on 
this trip alone Ole Bull saved eighty thousand 
dollars, and it is known that in addition to this 
he gave over twenty thousand dollars from the 
proceeds of his concerts to various charitable 
institutions, besides paying about fifteen thousand 


Ole B\ill — The Musician-Patriot 17 

dollars to artists and musicians who assisted 
him. 

After another successful European tour, Ole 
Bull returned to the United States in 1852 
with the intention of consummating the dream 
of his life, — the founding of a colony for 
his fellow-countrymen in the land where he 
had been so graciously received, where they 
would be free from all oppression and political 
tyranny. 

With the proceeds of his concert earnings, he 
negotiated for the purchase of an immense tract 
of land, consisting in all of about 125,000 acres, 
lying along the Susquehanna waters in northern 
Pennsylvania; from a landowner in Philadelphia, 
he purchased, for ten thousand dollars, 11,144 
acres at the headwaters of Kettle Creek, being 
warrants of land in Abbott and Stewardson town- 
ships, Potter County. Inspired by high ideals 
and lovely humanitarian sentiments, he made 
elaborate plans for the settlement and develop- 
ment of his colony; eventually, it is supposed, 
he expended the greater part of his fortune 
on this land and in building homes for his 
people. 

He organized his first band of about eight 
hundred Norwegians, who, in the summer of 1852, 
set sail from their beloved country, and came, with 
swelling hearts and high expectations to plant a 
4 ‘New Bergen” in Pennsylvania. 

True to his patriotic impulses, Ole Bull an- 


i8 


Olea 


nounced to his countrymen that, “we are to found 
a New Norway, consecrated to liberty, baptized 
with independence, and protected by the Union’s 
mighty flag.” 



Old Stone House at Walhalla 







■ 






V 




































' 




























CHAPTER IV 


THE COMING OF THE NORSEMEN 

T HE first company of emigrants came to their 
new possessions by the old Jersey Shore 
Turnpike — a motley crowd of queer ly dressed, 
hardy, but inexperienced Norwegians. 

They had reached Coudersport, the county-seat 
town, during the month of September, when the 
county court was in session; so great was the 
excitement caused by their novel appearance in 
the quiet town, that the court was obliged to 
adjourn, and the citizens all turned out to see the 
strange crowd of people and to greet the famous 
musician, who generously played for them in the 
old court-house. 

Major Samuel M. Mills, a well-known citizen, 
far-famed as a jolly boniface and wit, was, at this 
time, proprietor of the hotel at the “four comers,” 
and it fell to the Major’s hospitable lot to feed 
the assembled guests, and also, at the request of 
Ole Bull, to act as guide for the Norwegians on 
their first journey to their wilderness home. 

A little in advance of this remarkable band of 
foreigners, as they toiled along up the “Pike” to 
19 


20 


Olea 


their future home, a number of young and able- 
bodied men, each carrying a hatchet or axe, were 
clumsily cutting the trees and underbrush from 
the road to make room for the cumbersome wagons 
in the rear. Upon these wagons, drawn by large 
stage horses, was loaded the entire outfit of the 
settlers, which consisted of curious household 
effects and belongings brought from the old 
country, and some farming implements which, 
for the most part, were unadapted for use in this 
new and uncultivated country. 

Seated, or perched as best they could, on these 
creaking wagons were the elderly women and 
matrons of the company, some with babes in their 
arms ; while several men and some of the children, 
who were evidently tired of walking, were taking 
turns in riding on the heavy loads. 

Behind these followed a dozen or more teams 
with big lumber- wagons loaded high with rough 
lumber, on top of which were piled the scanty 
provisions and effects purchased at the county- 
seat. 

Walking beside the wagons were a lot of rough, 
peculiar-looking men, wearing fur caps, home-spun 
jackets, and heavy square-toed boots, and with 
red handkerchiefs around their necks, all jabbering 
loudly among themselves, and pointing at every 
unfamiliar object to be seen along the road. 

In the rear of the queer procession came a party 
of robust young women, dressed in scarlet jackets 
and white blouses; and behind them, a crowd of 


THe Coming of tHe Norsemen 21 


boys and children, picking their way along the 
wagon-road, talking and laughing together as if 
they quite enjoyed the novelty of their new life. 

They each carried something in their arms; the 
men, some bags and boxes thrown lightly over 
their shoulders; the girls, some private treasures 
or possessions which they dared not entrust to 
the jolting wagons; and the children followed, 
tugging their dinner baskets filled with cracknells, 
crisp “flatbrod,” and dried meat. 

It was in this primitive way that the Norwegian 
pioneers came to find a home in the forests of 
Potter County. 

Major Mills often delighted in telling, at his 
own expense, of an amusing incident of this trip 
to Oleona, which occurred at Cherry Springs 
where the company had halted for dinner. As 
everyone knew, the genial Major was endowed with 
an unusually strong voice, and in ordinary con- 
versation he was wont to talk about as loudly as 
he naturally laughed. But some wag had told 
the Major that Ole Bull was very deaf, and, by a 
logic peculiar only to himself, the Major had 
imagined that because the poor Norwegians could 
not understand him when he thundered at them, 
they must necessarily be deaf also. At dinner, 
when Major Sam was violently gesticulating and 
bellowing in the ears of Ole Bull and at his amazed 
compatriots, endeavoring, no doubt, to make 
himself communicative and agreeable, Ole Bull, 
in his terse, broken English, exclaimed: ‘‘For God’s 


22 


Olea 


sake, man, stop dis yelling in mine ears. You 
make tern deaf already, I tink!” The Major 
eyed the musician quizzically, and with one of his 
roaring laughs, shouted: “Yelling? I thought 
your whole Dutch colony was already yet deef 
as a post!” 

At Oleona the first tree was cut by a woman, 
Mrs. John Hopper, who, with her husband, had 
accompanied the party from New York. A flag- 
staff was erected on which she ran up the banner 
of Norway together with the Danish flag (in 
compliment to the number of Danes who had 
joined the emigrants), and both entwined with the 
stars and stripes. 

In the evening numerous bonfires illumined 
the landscape, and the founder, in whose honor 
the place was named, addressed his countrymen. 

Then, in the starlight, this “Paganini of the 
North,” standing tall and erect, with large blue 
eyes aflame and flaxen hair waving, seized his 
old violin and drew the wizard bow with a Teutonic 
reverence, mingled with impassioned inspiration, 
in a weird reproduction of the Hulder — the Spirit 
of the North — playing music as fascinating as the 
poetry of the Sagas and as mysterious as the light 
which lingers on his native mountains and fjords. 

In a fantastic whirl of melody, his rich, wild 
minstrelsy scintillated like the mimic northern 
lights shooting upward to the sky, and then 
murmured deep incantations, till the harmony 
blended in the voice of the hemlock forest, chanting 


THe Coming' of tHe Norsemen 23 

uncanny monotones, — then surging mightily like 
the de profundis of the sea. 

It was at the “Lion Tent/’ erected on this spot, 
that the patriotic people celebrated their first 
17th of May and 4th of July in 1853. On the 
latter occasion, however, Ole Bull was sick in New 
York, whence he had gone to raise money and to 
meet a ship-load of recruits for the colony. 

This was a sore disappointment to him, as he 
had expected to bring a number of his friends and 
musicians to take part in the celebration, which, 
nevertheless, was held, with a banquet at the 
“Lion Tent,” after which the celebrated “Hailing 
Dance” was given by the young people, at the 
unfinished castle, and the national hymn and 
anthems were sung by the hundreds of Norsemen 
assembled. 

Many and varied were the hardships and priva- 
tions which the colonists encountered and over- 
came during the first few months of their American 
life; but their true Norse courage never failed 
them, as, with inborn pluck and perseverance, 
they hewed and cut and built and planted, until, 
before the end of the first year quite permanent 
and prosperous little villages began to assume 
quaint form at New Bergen and Oleona, and at 
New Norway and Walhalla. 

During this trying yet happy time the genial 
and courageous Ole Bull was the commanding 
genius and faithful leader of his people. To him 
his countrymen looked for advice and support; 


24 


Olea 


and they did not appeal to him in vain, as the 
many stories of his good will and generosity, and 
the reverence with which his name is still held 
among them, will amply testify. 

On many a night, after their day’s work was 
over, the people, young and old, would gather at 
the castle overlooking their little communities 
to partake of his kind hospitality. The older 
people came perhaps for advice or assistance, or 
to recall together the adventures of their former 
life in old Norway; the young folks congregated 
there and recited the familiar folk-tales and runes 
of the Nordland, and danced the graceful old- 
country round dances, and sang the “niebel- 
lungenlied” of their native land. 

And then, greatest enjoyment of all to them, 
Ole Bull would play for them, — running over and 
over again the beautiful melodies, the soft 
strains from his old “Guarnerius” floating out 
and down the quiet valley as the wondrous meas- 
ures vibrated through the hemlock wood. 

This was Ole Bull as he was to them, — playing, 
always playing — his countrymen intently listening, 
as — 

“Before the blazing fire of wood 
Erect the rapt Musician stood; 

And ever and anon he bent 
His head upon his instrument ; 

And seemed to listen till he caught 
Confessions from its secret thought, — 

The joy, the triumph, the lament, 


THe Coming of tHe Norsemen 

The exultation and the pain ; 

Then, by the magic of his art 
He soothed the throbbings of its heart 
And lulled it into peace again.” 


25 


CHAPTER V 


OLEA 

A T these happy reunions there was one among 
the company whose presence added much 
to their mirthfulness and cheer, and whose sweet 
face and joyful disposition softened, more than 
all else perhaps, the often dreary and monotonous 
life of the colonists. This was Olea, the beautiful 
“Daughter of the North,” as she was familiarly 
called, — a young girl whose charming personality 
is forever enshrined in the legends of these 
hills. 

Olea was the second child of Syken Knude 
Ericsson, a sturdy old Norseman and Bergen friend 
of Ole Bull’s, who had come to America with his 
family when Olea was about sixteen years old. 

Syken Knude was mighty and imposing, with a 
wild and passionate Berserk nature, much resem- 
bling, in appearance and stature, the renowned 
Norsk giant, Engebret Soot, whose colossal deeds 
of strength and daring are recorded in the annals 
of the legendary Northland. 

Olea had inherited much of her father’s haughti- 
ness and strength of character, which well fitted 



I 


Old Coudersport Hotel 










































• . 































































































Olea 


27 

her for a life of considerable adventure and romance, 
such as hers had been from infancy. 

From the fact of her father’s influence in the 
colony, and his relationship with Ole Bull, Olea 
easily became the general favorite at New Bergen 
and Oleona where she grew to young womanhood. 
Besides, she was the most beautiful of all the 
pretty Norwegian maidens of the twin settlements. 

Hers was that healthy, almost robust, yet 
delicate and fascinating beauty, which so often 
characterizes the women of northern Europe, — a 
Teutonic type, which is queenly because it is so 
normal and proud, and beautiful because it is 
so divinely fair. 

Olea had developed a quaint charm of manner 
and a stateliness of demeanor which was all her 
own. She had a well-proportioned figure, not 
too tall, but a trifle rounded, and as supple and 
strong as the graceful doe which grazed upon her 
native hills. Her rosy complexion reflected her 
healthy constitution as only northern blood can 
show its pureness by its surface glow, for her fair 
skin was as soft and white as the velvet which 
clings to the down of the thistle, blooming alone 
on the bank of the stream. 

The blue of her eyes was deep and clear and 
reflecting, like the brown eyes of a fawn which, 
when startled, timidly peers through the thicket 
and gallops away. Olea’s light wavy hair was 
not quite golden, nor auburn, but flaxen, with 
ringlets which clung and curled ’round her temples, 


28 


Olea 


and fell, when unloosed, in silken clusters over 
her shoulders and neck. 

With a voice soft and entreating, full of the 
tender expression which her slight accent gave to 
a language Teutonic and guttural, yet classic and 
strong, Olea was not too assertive, but rather 
innocent and mild and inquiring; and her full, 
red lips had a pretty habit of pouting, just a trifle, 
when she talked or smiled. 

She loved her people and was proud of her Norse 
ancestry and their traditions; although raised in 
an environment of uncultured privation, Olea was 
yet gentle and brave; she could shoot with all the 
alertness of a forest hunter, and could cast a fly 
upon the waters with just the precision and skill 
of an angler on her native streams. 

Even slow-going, unemotional Helga Olson, 
whom Olea had known since childhood, used to 
look upon her with admiration and blank amaze- 
ment when she would easily outrun him to meet 
the big broad-gauged stage-coach coming down 
the pike at dusk, or, when out fishing, she would 
catch more trout than he ever could at the splash- 
dam. 

Helga was one of those dreamy young fellows 
who always achieve so little because of the much 
they conceive. He and Olea had been sweet- 
hearts from childhood; not because Helga had 
ever done anything in particular to endear himself 
to Olea, nor had she ever shown much more than 
a friendly interest in him, yet, from mere force of 


Olea 


29 


circumstances, they had gradually grown to con- 
sider themselves as destined for each other. 

Knude Ericsson had approved of him simply 
because their families had been friends in the old 
country for years, and Olea had never stopped to 
consider whether or not that fact would eventually 
count more with her than love or affection ; so she 
had tolerated Helga, and even liked him, in a 
sisterly sort of way, for she had never known 
another boy-friend or companion; and love, to 
her, was as yet like a myth from the Sagas, — 
something mysterious and unknown. 

But, with all his conceit and negative virtues, 
as compared with most of his young companions, 
Helga was prepossessing and bright and had an 
agreeable manner, though at times he was dis- 
posed to be jealous and sullen, — at least whenever 
Olea would chance to pay his comrades any 
particular attention or favor. 

So it is evident that Olea and Helga were by 
nature and temperament quite far apart and 
unsuited for each other; while, to all outward 
appearances, the two were congenial and happy 
in the unaffected and simple parts they played 
in the social and civic life of New Bergen. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE COMING OF THE GERMANS 

A FEW years after the arrival of the Norwegians 
in Pennsylvania, there was founded, in the 
year 1855, another colony, with whose history the 
story of the Norwegians is closely connected. 

This was a settlement of industrious and pros- 
perous Germans, who had established themselves 
in the beautiful valley just over the hill, about 
four miles from New Bergen, and who had 
planted there their typical German village called 
Germania. ' 

Mr. William Radde, of New York, had purchased 
a large tract of land in Abbott Township, com- 
prising a portion of the original Ole Bull purchase, 
and his German followers came and cleared and 
settled this territory early in ’56. They bought 
some of the land and improvements near New 
Bergen direct from a few of the Norwegians who 
had already become dissatisfied and discouraged 
and wished to remove to Wisconsin. For this 
cleared land the Germans paid on an average of 
twenty dollars an acre, and the price was paid to 
the Norwegians in gold coin. The story is told 
30 




















THe Coming of tHe Germans 31 

of one old Norwegian, thus paid, who put his gold 
in a pouch strapped around his waist. It hap- 
pened that he was drowned in fording some river, 
but his body, with the gold, was afterwards 
recovered by his sons. 

The Germans had come with a more genuine 
determination than had the Norwegians to organ- 
ize a truly American commonwealth. It may be 
that in experience they were better fitted for the 
work which they had undertaken, or perhaps they 
were constitutionally so. At all events, they were, 
from the beginning, markedly more progressive 
and successful than their Norse cousins. 

The German colony grew and prospered rapidly, 
and within a remarkably short time they were well 
established in their little village of Germania, 
with the surrounding hillsides well cleared and 
turned into profitable farm lands. Nowhere 
perhaps was German thrift shown to better ad- 
vantage than in the manner in which they estab- 
lished themselves in so short a time in this Potter 
County wilderness. 

The Germans were essentially pioneers, but 
not being handicapped by lack of funds and neces- 
sities as were the Norwegians, they were more 
than mere adventurers. They were at once 
citizens of their adopted country. They adapted 
themselves to the new conditions and grew up as 
an essential part of the community in which they 
lived. Germania very soon became a permanent, 
well-organized little village, and the sturdy Teu- 


32 


Olea 


tonic character of its inhabitants made it a truly 
German- American town. 

Besides the village church and the schoolhouse, 
where the German language, history and literature, 
were taught, there was established the well-known 
brewery which for many years was operated in 
connection with the Germania Inn. The Germans 
were, and are, a whole-souled, social people and this 
enterprise of old Joseph Schwarzenbach, one of 
the early settlers, was in response to the general 
demand from the colonists, men and women alike, 
that they have their own brew of lager beer, there 
in their forest-bound town. 

It was a small affair, that first brewery, but, 
like their celebrated “ Schuetzen-Verein ” which, 
in after years, became the center of their social 
life, it moderately fulfilled the wants of these genial 
people. Although Potter County came under a 
special prohibitory law about this time, this 
brewery was allowed to dispense its beer in quan- 
tities not less than one gallon ; so instead of a stein, 
the patrons of Schwarzenbach ’ s Inn were provided 
with cute little wooden kegs, each holding one 
gallon, and all bound ’round with pretty brass 
hoops, with a diminutive spigot attached to each. 

Night after night the folk of the entire town, 
emulating the custom of the Vaterland, would 
gather in the attractive meeting hall of the little 
inn and partake of their “georgies” of foaming 
lager, drawn direct from the brewery adjoining. 
The little keg was placed in the center of the 


THe Coming of tHe Germans 33 

table and the faucet manipulated by one of the 
men until the whole party had been served over 
and over. Then dancing or some entertainment, 
with a generous “ Dutch lunch” would usually 
follow; and in this happy and congenial way the 
people cultivated a social life which, for years, 
has made Germania famous for its hospitality and 
good cheer. 

But they were ever a peaceable, industrious, 
and law-abiding people. Their family quarrels 
and neighborhood disputes, if they ever had any, 
were more often referred to the village doctor for 
settlement or arbitrated by three good men ap- 
pointed by him, and the criminal courts of Potter 
County were never troubled with cases from 
Germania, any more than they were from Oleona 
or New Bergen. 

Yet the Norwegians, on the other hand, were 
ever aliens and strangers in a strange land. At 
best they were adventurers and dreamers. New 
Bergen was an experiment, and Oleona, with its 
castle fortress, was an extravagant dream of 
empire. The easy-going Norsemen never seemed 
to cope with the difficulties of foreign colonization 
because they never fully understood or appreciated 
the spirit of the American pioneer. 

At first they looked with much interest at the 
advent of their German kinsfolk ; but as they beheld 
their increasing numbers and noted their more suc- 
cessful efforts at home-making in the new country, 
they began to regard them with feelings of slight 


3 


34 


Olea 


jealousy, and even of ill will; and in consequence 
of this unfriendly spirit, the Germans naturally 
began to entertain sentiments of distrust and 
misgivings toward their less favored cousins over 
the hill. 

In short, the Norwegians soon began to dislike 
the Germans because they did not understand 
them, and the Germans became unsympathetic 
because they could not tolerate their foreign and 
uncongenial ways; so it happened that almost from 
the first a feeling of antagonism, which would seem 
wholly inconsistent with their characters, spread 
between the two peoples; and this unfortunate 
condition increased in intensity as each began to 
regard the other as a rival colony, with no patriotic 
impulses or aims in common. 

It is a regrettable fact of history that northern 
nations of a common origin, whose peoples would 
most naturally understand and unite with each 
other, are often the most bitter foes; and yet it 
must ever be remembered that even our much 
boasted Anglo-Saxon blood is but a commingled 
rivulet from the great Scandinavian sea. 

Among the Germans there lived at this time a 
fair-haired, sturdy son of the Fatherland who fully 
realized all these unfortunate conditions, and whose 
heart was firmly set on uniting the rival colonies in 
a spirit of mutual dependence and support. 

Karl Wagner was now about twenty- two years 
of age. He had inherited from his genial old 


THe Coming' of tHe Germans 35 

father a frank and whole-souled disposition, and 
from his affectionate and hard-working mother 
his industry and sterling strength of character. 
These were by no means exceptional traits for a 
youth of the old high German stock, but Karl 
possessed in an exceptional degree all of the best 
and most prominent characteristics of his pure- 
blooded northern ancestry. With his well devel- 
oped physique and courageous bearing, he was 
perhaps the best liked and most trusted young 
German among his people at Germania, at this 
early and critical period of its history. 

To Karl it had always seemed strange and 
unnatural that there should be a spirit of rivalry 
or unfriendliness between his people and the 
inoffensive Norwegians. It was a condition which 
aroused every patriotic impulse in his nature. He 
resolved that, come what may, he would attempt 
to reconcile their differences, and to unite them 
as sister communities with aims and purposes in 
common. 

He well knew the difficulties and dangers in this 
undertaking. The Germans, even his own family 
and friends, were unrelenting in their attitude; 
and the Norwegians were becoming more and more 
prejudiced and suspicious of their unwelcome 
neighbors. 

Quite independent of each other the little 
villages in southeastern Potter had now become 
something more than mere unsettled communities. 
But Germania was united and prosperous, while 


36 


Olea 


all the Norwegian towns had long since begun a 
struggle for their very existence, amid many 
discouragements and trials. 

Ole Bull had been to great expense in maintain- 
ing his colony and providing for its development. 
He continually gave concerts for its benefit, but 
often the proceeds failed to reach his people, 
through the treachery and dishonesty of his 
agents. He was even intending to charter a 
vessel to transport emigrants to America, but the 
expected recruits and supplies had failed to 
arrive. 

Karl realized that without the immediate 
assistance of the Germans the Norwegian colony 
would, before another winter, break up in utter 
failure. 

Kettle Creek was almost forbidden territory 
to him then, but Karl, with a secret promise of 
loyalty and support from some of his intimate 
young German friends, determined to go to New 
Bergen and offer aid to the struggling people there 
and, if necessary, the financial assistance of the 
Germans. 

He well knew that most of his own people would 
not approve of this course, and that the Norwe- 
gians themselves would doubtless resent his 
interference in their affairs. 

The situation was a delicate one in the extreme, 
and one fraught with many dangers. Yet Karl 
knew these people, and had firmly decided to 
join his fortunes with them rather than let 


THe Coming of tHe Germans 37 

these conditions continue, — for that would only 
mean that very soon the heroic Scandi- 
navian venture would disastrously and miserably 
fail. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE MEETING ON LITTLE KETTLE CREEK 

I T was a bright warm morning in the summer of 
that year, 1856, when Karl set out on foot, ’cross 
country from Germania, and long before noon he 
reached the bank of Little Kettle Creek which 
flows past the Norwegian town. 

Seating himself on a log beside the stream, Karl 
was thinking of how he could best approach these 
people to offer assistance in the face of the indig- 
nation, or perhaps worse complication, that any 
imprudent action on his part would be sure to 
arouse. The more he studied the delicate situa- 
tion the more perplexed he became. 

Pondering there, he was suddenly aroused from 
his reverie by the sound of someone coming down 
the narrow path leading to the stream. He arose 
quickly and, turning, stood almost face to face 
with a young girl, — one whom he had never seen 
before on any of his friendly visits to New Bergen. 

It was Olea. She was dressed in a bright red 
jacket with close-fitting bodice over a white blouse 
with short sleeves. A peculiar winged head- 
dress rested jauntily on the back of her head, her 
38 



Germania of To-Day 

From a Photograph 






































* 































THe Meeting on Little Kettle CreeK 39 

light hair falling loosely from beneath. She wore 
a stomacher of pretty colored beads, and at her 
throat hung a pale old-fashioned brooch in a scroll 
setting of very dull gold. By her side trotted a 
large shepherd dog, and he was sniffing the air 
suspiciously as if he scented some hidden danger 
to his mistress. 

Olea was softly humming to herself and seemed 
quite unconscious of the presence of anyone else 
until she came abruptly upon Karl. She drew 
back a step or two, and the dog barked sharply in 
sudden alarm. But in a moment she was reas- 
sured by Karl’s embarrassed smile as he politely 
removed his cap and bowed awkwardly. Coloring 
slightly, she said meekly, “Pardon me, Sir; I did 
not see you.” “You will pardon me, Miss,” 
replied Karl, in German, and then he added rather 
shyly: “Perhaps I am intruding?” “You are 
from over the hill, nicht wahr?”, she asked some- 
what sharply, in his own tongue, “Sie sind ein 
Deutscher?” And then, noticing his rising color, 
she added quickly, “But these woods are yours 
as well as mine. My Father knows the Germans 
well. No, you are not intruding here.” And she 
partly turned to go, as she called to the dog, now 
barking loudly at Karl’s heels. “Yes, Miss,” he 
said, “ I am a German. But I know and like your 
people well. I want to help them.” He hesi- 
tated, and then, in a confused, simple way added, 
“From my heart I wish all the Norwegians 
nothing but good.” Olea halted a moment, and 


40 


Olea 


smiling sweetly, almost sadly, as a pretty color 
suffused her cheeks, she said quietly: “Then you 
will always be welcome at New Bergen.” And 
with a little apparent agitation, she passed quickly 
down the narrow winding ravine, and was lost 
from sight in the thick foliage which swished back 
across the pathway. 

Karl did not make much progress, in a philan- 
thropic way, that day; but for weeks after this 
simple incident the beautiful face of Olea, as she 
appeared to him that summer morning, rose again 
and again in his mind. And he thought of her 
as she turned away from him, after their first 
chance meeting by the brook, with the well- 
remembered words on her lips: “Then you will 
always be welcome at New Bergen,” and he won- 
dered whether he would meet her again, and ever 
really would be welcome at her plain Norwegian 
home. 

During the following months Karl made frequent 
trips to Oleona and New Bergen, and gradually 
made many acquaintances and friendships among 
the people there. Slowly he was beginning to get 
their confidence, and he was quietly perfecting his 
plans for the relief of the unfortunate colonists. 

Indeed they very soon began to look upon Karl 
with some degree of cordiality, and many of these 
dependent people relied on and trusted him 
implicitly. 

Yet he seldom saw at New Bergen the one he 


THe Meeting on Little Rettle CreeK 41 

wanted to see most of all, — the girl whom he had 
met for one brief moment beside the stream, and 
whose unseen presence had been almost constantly 
in his mind ever since. 

One day as he was riding slowly along the turn- 
pike, he came unexpectedly upon Olea as she was 
picking wild blackberries by the side of the road 
not far from her home. She had recognized him 
and smiled, — a crimson color showing itself in her 
face; but before he could return her greeting, in 
his embarrassment he had dropped the reins, and 
his horse, starting suddenly, galloped wildly far 
up the road before he could regain control over him. 

Karl was chagrined and disappointed, but the 
opportunity of meeting Olea again, and of further- 
ing his quixotic plans, was not long delayed. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE LAST PARTY AT OLE BULL’S CASTLE 

NE day late in October, as Karl was riding 



past the low curved-roofed store and village 
“headquarters” at the forks of the road near the 
foot of the hill, some young Norwegians, Helga 
Olson among them, called out loudly to him, and 
Karl reined up his horse, quite out of breath and 
excited. 

They cordially greeted him, and invited him to 
join them the next evening at a party at Ole Bull's 
castle. “Ole Bull is back again to help us,” 
Helga said, “and he will play for us; we can dance 
at the castle and have a jolly time once more. 
You would n’t mind joining us for an evening, 
would you Karl?” 

Karl thanked them heartily for the long-wished- 
for invitation and promptly accepted. As he 
rode up the hill he again called out to them, “You 
can count on me, boys. I will surely come over.” 

Karl had heard of those famous parties at Ole 
Bull’s castle. And he knew that Olea would be 
there, and he was strangely impatient to meet her 
again; more than that, with Ole Bull and all his 
people there together, perhaps for the last time, 


42 


THe Last Party at Ole Bull's Castle 43 

Karl hoped that he would find the opportunity of 
offering the much-needed assistance of the Germans 
to these discouraged and despondent people. 

Yet he felt that he was going there against the 
will of nearly all of his German friends, who had 
by this time surmised something of Karl’s motives 
in cultivating the friendship of the disliked Nor- 
wegians; moreover, they had heard of Olea, and 
had begun to suspect the attachment that was 
growing up between them. 

As Karl rode away that night his stern old father 
cautioned him to remember his position at Ger- 
mania, and to do nothing that might implicate 
his people in the desperate condition of affairs 
confronting the Norwegians. 

But what is prosaic caution when love and duty 
are both at stake? 

And what a glorious evening it was, — that last 
party at the old castle! Ole Bull, jovial and 
kindly, welcomed them one and all, and played 
matchless selections on his old violin, playing as 
he had never played before, it seemed to them. 

All the young men and maidens, and most of 
the settlers along Kettle Creek came to the castle 
that night to greet their beloved leader. Olea, 
of course, was there, — more radiant and beautiful 
than Karl had ever dreamed she was. 

As softly the sweet notes of the violin, in the 
hands of the great musician, began to be heard in 
the rustic pavilion, the dancing began, and Karl 
gallantly asked Olea for the first round waltz. 


44 


Olea 


How the memories of that dance lingered in 
Karl’s mind for many days and years thereafter! 
The youthful dancers glided on and on, in perfect 
harmony with the rhythm of the music, into a sea 
of eternal bliss, — it seemed to Karl. One by one 
the couples stopped dancing and watched the 
graceful pair, as, never tiring, they swept by, — 
now fast, now slow, as the master hand alternated 
the music, — Karl boldly leading, while she, demure 
and beautiful, followed with a light and graceful 
step. Her face was near to his, and she whispered 
something to him, softly, in German, and he 
answered, — something, he did not know exactly 
what. 

Almost too soon the waltz was over and Karl 
seated Olea, followed by the admiring glances of 
all the dancers. “ Bravo, Karl! Lang lebe die 
Deutschen!”, rang loudly in his ears. ‘ 4 Here’s 
to the Daughter of the North!”, shouted one of 
the men, as he raised a stein of fresh brewed beer 
to his lips. “And here’ s to her worthy partner 
from the Fatherland!”, rejoined another of the 
company. Then someone proposed a song, and 
they all joined in singing the national hymn and 
their favorite Norske folk-songs; then, in com- 
pliment to Karl, they sang Die Lorelei and Die 
Wacht am Rhein , in German. “Now Karl, you 
and Olea must sing,” several called out at once, 
after they had finished and were seated again. 
After some hesitation, the two sang together, — 
one of the old ballads from Landstad’s Folkwiser, 


THe Last Party at Ole Bull’s Castle 45 

which they had each known since childhood, — 
Olea singing in a clear soft soprano, and Karl 
accompanying with his deep rich bass. Then 
Olea sang alone, — a simple Norwegian love song; 
and Karl stood by and watched her, and thought 
how innocent and beautiful she was, and how 
supremely happy he felt in being near her. 

Soon a bountiful supper of trout and venison 
and brown bread and cake, with pitchers of foam- 
ing dark lager beer, was served in the dance hall; 
and, — 

“ Meanwhile, from out its ebon case 
His violin the Minstrel drew, 

And, having tuned its strings anew, 

Now held it close in his embrace, 

And poising in his outstretched hand 
The bow, like a magician’s wand, 

He paused, and said, with beaming face : 

‘ Last night my story was too long ; 

To-day I give you but a song, 

An old tradition of the North. ’ ” 

Then they joined in the famous “Hailing dance, ’ ’ , 
and all sang and danced again until at length the 
gray dawn began to lighten the eastern hemlocks, 
which threw fantastic silhouettes ’gainst the 
morning sky, — faintly gleaming, like the pale 
aurora of the north, in their own “Land of the 
Midnight Sun.” 

After many expressions of confidence, some im- 
portant plans for the relief of the colonists were 


46 


Olea 


discussed, frankly and at length, much to Karl’s 
gratification. 

But all too soon the reluctant farewells were 
said, and Karl saddled Olea’s shaggy little pony 
and, helping her to mount, rode beside her down 
the wide mountain roadway, which was just being 
cleared, to the water’s edge, and on up the main 
road to the comers at the “Lion Tent” where the 
straggling revelers were separating for their homes. 

As they slowly turned up the valley leading to 
New Bergen, the sun was just tipping the western 
mountains with a golden light, and the wild birds 
were chirping their morning carols from the dew- 
covered bushes which bended close across the 
narrow road. Impressed with the fresh sweetness 
of the morning, they rode along in silence, listening 
to the sweet melody of the birds and stream. 

They reached the settlement in advance of the 
others, and, alighting in front of Olea’s home, 
they sat down on the mstic bench beside the 
spring. Then impulsively, almost abruptly, Karl 
told Olea of his love for her, — of his plans for her 
future and his, — of his hope of uniting their people. 
He spoke earnestly and tenderly, and when he had 
finished he was standing beside her, helpless and con- 
fused. Olea was half embarrassed, half alarmed. 
She was silent for a moment, and then turning 
towards him with an innocent smile, she said 
meekly: “Ich liebe dich, Karl,” and she buried 
her flushed face on his shoulder as he drew her 
close to him and held her there. 


THe Last Party at Ole Bull’s Castle 47 

Withdrawing herself in an instant from his 
arms, she told him earnestly and frankly how 
many things stood in the way of their happiness, 
— of the probable objections of his people and hers, 
and of the deep-seated jealousy she knew, as well 
as he, existed among them. 

For a few minutes they remained standing 
there by the spring, plainly outlined against the 
morning sky, quite oblivious of their position, — 
thinking, for the moment, only of themselves, and 
of their own happiness in being together. 

Coming suddenly into view around the turn 
in the road, Olea’s father, with Helga and some 
others of the returning party, saw them standing 
there, — and Karl, confused and embarrassed, 
turned to greet them. Olea, with flaming cheeks, 
fled quickly into the house. Her father and the 
young Norwegians, coming up, began to jeer at 
Karl until, in anger, he rushed from them, and, 
leaping onto his horse, he galloped furiously up 
the road towards Germania, with their threats 
and insults ringing in his ears. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE HICKS OF THE POND-HOLES 

A T the extreme head of Little Kettle Creek, 
about four miles above New Bergen, and 
almost beyond where any water runs, there is a 
curious natural formation on the “hog’s back” 
where Pine Creek and Sinnamahoning waters 
meet. 

The steep hills, prominent and regular, coming 
abruptly together, form a little notch between them, 
inclosing a level strip of land, perhaps four rods 
wide and twice as long, with a natural roadway 
at the foot of each hill on either side. Equi- 
distant, in this flat ravine are three distinct water- 
pools or pond-holes, perhaps six or eight feet deep, 
with a few feet of nice, level ground between them. 
Just beyond the third water-hole a sharp ledge 
of rocks drops off abruptly into the West Branch 
of Pine Creek; while on the other side the ravine 
gradually widens into the valley of the Kettle 
Creeks. 

These pond-holes, apparently, are not connected, 
but remain full of clear, limpid water; they re- 
semble tiny reservoirs which perpetually supply 
48 



s 


Ole Bull 

Drawing by Darley 



THe HicKs of tKe Pond-Holes 49 

the two great tributaries of the Susquehanna. 
But if they should be joined together by a pipe or 
ditch, the water might easily be made to flow in 
either direction from these common but divergent 
sources of the same great river ; and a water circle 
hundreds of miles in circumference might thus be 
completed, the diameter of which would extend 
from the tiny pools above New Bergen far across 
the Alleghenies down to Jersey Shore. 

In the side of the mountain near these pond- 
holes, a flat ledge of rocks, with a small opening 
between the strata, slants back into the hills. 
Beyond this rock tunnel, through which one might 
crawl on his hands and knees, there is a huge 
natural cave, about thirty feet square and ten 
or twelve feet high, and which is accessible only 
from the ravine crevice. 

This mountain cavern in the apex of the divid- 
ing ridge had, in years gone by, been a convenient 
rendezvous for bands of mountaineers and des- 
perate characters who infested these parts at 
frequent intervals, or whenever they were driven 
out of the lumbering districts and “log drives” 
along Pine Creek and the Sinnamahoning. The 
isolated location of the retreat afforded, as well, 
a convenient crossing between two immense 
hemlock and pine timber belts, — regions which 
were beginning to be operated, and which were 
equally exposed to the depredations of these 
bandits of the hills. “Hicks,” they came to be 
called, in the later parlance of the time, because 


50 


Olea 


they were characters peculiar to the lumber regions 
and products of an industrial age which has long 
since passed away. The typical Potter County 
“Hick” of a decade ago had developed certain 
virtues as well as most of the faults peculiar to his 
kind, and for viciousness of character and general 
lawlessness was not to be compared with his 
prototype of the early fifties, who subscribed to 
no such code of law or morals as afterwards 
prevailed in the lumber regions. 

Before the development of the industry, years 
before the coming of the big mills and tanneries 
which denuded these hills of their virgin forests, 
the typical woods-man was essentially a rough 
mountaineer ; while the genuine “Hick” of a 
generation later was a product of peculiar but 
better organized social and economic conditions. 

In the early days a “still” for making “moon- 
shine” whiskey had been operated at the pond- 
holes, and the interior recesses of the cave once 
contained part of a kit of tools which were used 
by a gang of counterfeiters who occasionally took 
possession of this retreat to “polish off the queer.” 

The German settlers, as well as the guileless 
Norwegians, were naturally easy prey for these 
Hicks and desperate marauders, who not only 
plundered their stores and stole their grain to make 
“moonshine” whiskey, but they also passed off 
on them, or “shoved,” their counterfeit money 
in exchange for the good coin of the colonists. A 
gallon of “mountain dew” was worth, at Oleona 


THe HicKs of tKe Pond-Holes 51 

or Germania, sometimes as much as five dollars 
in gold, and “metal money” became as plentiful 
there as good money and provisions had become 
scarce, — an alarming condition in which the settlers 
were held at the absolute mercy of this dreaded 
band of plunderers and thieves. 

As Karl, in a most despondent mood, rode up 
the hill that autumn morning, he chanced to look 
across the valley which spread out towards the 
twin hills inclosing the little pond-holes of the 
Susquehanna. 

The fog was just lifting before the rising sun 
and the distant mountains stood out clear and 
distinct against the morning sky. Almost imper- 
ceptible on the far horizon a tiny thread of blue 
smoke curled upwards through the hemlocks and 
vanished in the hazy air. Karl watched it, then 
lost it, then found it again, — now hanging like a 
thin gray mist between the double crags. 

With a sudden impulse or determination, Karl 
wheeled his horse down a side-path to the stream 
a mile beyond, and, tying him there, took a 
circuitous route through the forest to the head of 
Little Kettle Creek. 

He approached the notch in the hills from along 
the cliff on the West Branch side of the pond-holes 
and was thus able to crawl near to the entrance 
of the cave and to crouch on the ledge of rocks 
directly over it, without being seen from the narrow 
ravine below. As he reached this secluded posi- 


52 


Olea 


tion he beheld a motley crowd of some ten or a 
dozen rough-looking men, seated around a rickety 
table in front of the cave, or “lobby,” devouring 
a breakfast of “moonshine” and fried fish. They 
were dressed like the typical “Hick” of the lumber 
regions, in a style as grotesque and peculiar as 
ever characterized the woodman’s kind. The 
broad brims of their black slouch hats were 
turned squarely up in front and down at the back, 
giving them a picturesque and semi-military effect. 
Their heavy, red, woolen jackets were open at 
the throat, with the sleeves rolled up, and the 
waist was drawn tight and tied in a great knot 
at the back, causing their wearers to look hump- 
backed or deformed. Their blue overalls, caught 
by a strap over one shoulder, were rolled up at 
the bottom, halfway to the knee, leaving the thick 
red leggings to hang over the tops of their heavy- 
laced shoes. These shoes had soles an inch thick, 
which were closely fitted with hobnails or sharp 
spikes. Thus equipped, with his spud and calked 
boots, a Hick was usually perfectly sure on foot 
in the lumber- woods, and equally safe and well 
protected in a camp fight or brawl. 

With the exception of an old shotgun and a 
couple of thirty-two rifles and a few rusty “cant- 
hooks” or “pike-levers,” no more formidable 
weapons were in evidence in the camp at the 
pond-holes ; but the Hicks were loud and boisterous, 
though seemingly good-natured that morning, as 
they had evidently been “hitting up ” the “ mount- 


THe HicKs of tKe Pond-Holes 53 


ain dew” while breakfast was being prepared by 
the “Cookie.” 

Karl, from his hiding place in the rocks, could 
easily overhear the banter and conversation below, 
and, to his surprise, the subject was boastingly 
turned on a proposed “raid on the natives” — as 
the leader, a powerful Hick with a deep scar across 
his face, had expressed it to a “pal” who was just 
emerging from the cave . “We gotter ’ a ve more grub 

in this ’ere camp, — an’ d quick tew ! ’An how’n 

h can we git booze wi’out mash to run ’er from, 

— that ’s what I wan’ tew know? ” he howled, as he 
brought a red, wrinkled fist down on the table 
with a bang, upsetting the trout skillet into the 
fire and knocking over an improvised seat as he 
dug his calked heel into a log by the pond-hole. 
“D ’ye Hicks think we kin live on punk dollers 
all winter? They don’t wash down wid me worth 

a d an’ I ’ll swap ’em fer swag any ol’ time, an’ 

they don’t hev t’ roll me t’ git ’em, eether, — y’ kin 
betcher sweet life ! W’at we want ’round here is 
more red licker and chuck, an’ less o’ this ’ere junk,” 
he yelled, as he glared at the formidable group about 
him, as if to see if anyone dared disagree with his 
convincing remarks. 

Noting no signs of rebellion nor qualms of 
conscience in his faithful band, he continued, in 
a more subdued and confidential tone, “Them 
damfool Norwegens down the crick there,” — 
jerking his big thumb over his shoulder, “an’ them 
igrant, stingy Dutchmen at Germanie, — them 


54 


Olea 


fellers ha’ got th’ provinder, ye betcher boots! 
An’ thers grain ’nuff rottin’ in them shacks o’ them 
to make grog fer this ’ere camp all winter, — ’an 
chuck e’ nuff to las’ till leek diggin’ time. Now, 
seys I, I ’m fer foraging a few! We ’ll raid them 
foreeners and organize this ’ere camp right ! 
Wha’ d’ ye Hicks say to makin’ a haul — tonite — 
’bout midnite — we ’ll divide the gang an’ paralize 
that hull outfit — and make ’em dig up? Hey, 
Shorty?” 

This brilliant plot being thus unfolded, the pals 
expressed their appreciation by all taking a drink; 
between gulps and coughing fits, they grunted 
their unqualified approval of the raid. 

Suggestions for its consummation came thick and 
fast, and the self-constituted leader thundered 
and pounded for silence as he outlined his ingenious 
plans to them, and assigned to each man his 
particular part and post of duty in the night’s 
bold adventure. 

Karl, concealed on the ledge above them, was 
eagerly listening to the details of the proposed 
raid, when, in turning slightly to relieve his 
cramped position, he accidentally unloosed a 
small boulder which rolled off the embankment and 
fell with a sharp crash on the rocks directly in 
front of the cave. Instantly the mountaineers 
sprang to their feet, and three of them clambered 
up the steep bank followed closely by some of the 
others, the brawny captain yelling out, “What in 
h are ye firing rocks down ’ere fer, ye lout? 


THe HicKs of tKe Pond-Holes 55 

This ’ere camp haint no shootin’ gallery fer dagos 
likes o’ ye! Rout him out o’ there, y’ Hicks!” 
Karl jumped to his feet only to find his retreat 
down the gully cut off by the three fellows stagger- 
ing towards him. He quickly resolved to make 
the best of a bad situation by calling out, cheerily 
“ Hello, there ! Which way is it down to the West 
Branch?” The men stopped and eyed him sus- 
piciously, then one answered: “Wall, Stranger, 
it ain’t on top o’ a feller’s shanty, — ner under them 
’air pond-hulls neethyr. If it ’s a drink yere 
looking arter, guess we kin ’commodate yer tho’. 
Come alang down ’ere!” So saying, they sur- 
rounded Karl and together they rolled and slid 
down to the foot of the bluff where the others 
awaited them. 

Karl heard one of the Hicks mutter, “0, h , 

it ’s unly one o’ them igrant Dutchmun ! Dutcher ’n 
sour-krout! He mocks nix ’ous! Herous mit 
’em!” The Captain snorted, “Young fellar, 
what ’er ye snoopin’ ’round ’ere fer enyway, hey? 
If yere Dutch ’lations don’t need yer ’round 
Germanie, I ’m thinkin’ ye ’d better stick aroun’ 
here an’ ’elp keep camp terday. We’ 11 see that 
yer wont be pokin’ yer Dutch nose in decent folks’ 
bizzniss. Here you, Shorty! Wind that air 
grab chain ’round his shanks and lead him inter 
th’ parler, whare he wunt be buttin’ in agin till 
we git reddy ter break camp.” 

Realizing that he was a prisoner in their hands, 
Karl, feigning innocence of their motives, tried 


56 


Olea 


to pacify and reason with them; but the outlaws 
were in no mood for trifling. Shorty picked up a 
rope and led the way, on his hands and knees, 
into the cave, commanding Karl to follow him, 
while the Captain crawled behind them, puffing 
and cursing at every move. 

Inside the cave a dim light flickered from a 
smoky lantern on a small table; on one side were 
piled a lot of tools and some luggage, and on the 
other, against the wall, some bunks of hemlock 
boughs had been arranged. 

With Shorty’s assistance, the Captain tied 
Karl’s hands and feet and fastened the end of the 
rope through an iron in a long pine post which was 
firmly driven into a crevice in the rocks. Karl 
was thoroughly alarmed at the turn affairs had 
taken, but at length, he was somewhat relieved 
when the Captain sarcastically leered, “Ye kin 
jest make yerself to hum ’round hyer, Dutchy, 
an’ mebby ter-morrer the travelin’ ’ill be better 
fer yer — on ther West Branch, er down the Sinna- 
mahone.” Then, with a chuckle with his compan- 
ion, he brawled out, with cheerful consideration, 
“Bring him a taste o’ mountin dew an’ a fried 
sucker fer dinner, Shorty; an’ see that he don’t 
git rolled, ner slip the halter, neether, — them 
Dutch ’er h fer travelin’ !” 

So saying, both gentlemen of the grotto, chuck- 
ling at their own cleverness and wit, crawled out 
through the narrow tunnel, leaving Karl to the 
desolation of the murky cavern. 


CHAPTER X 


THE NIGHT RAID 



'HE Hicks were not certain that Karl had 


1 overheard any of their plans for the raid on 
the settlers ; but they were not men who take many 
chances, so they decided to keep Karl a prisoner 
until the night’s work was done, and then send 
him on his way, harmless and unsuspecting. 

They mistook Karl for the “igrant Dutchman” 
they had dubbed him, and it was quite beyond 
their comprehension that he could make them any 
real trouble; still, they considered it safest to hold 
him for a while at least, to prevent any possible 
alarm or suspicions he might arouse. 

So the day dragged on and the merry mountain- 
eers drank and smoked, and played cards and 
slept around the pond-holes, until darkness finally 
came; then they built a rousing camp-fire and 
cooked their supper and made their final prepara- 
tions for the “raid on the natives.” 

Karl put in a lonesome, dreary day on an uncom- 
fortable bunk in the dismal cave; but he knew 
better than to try to escape by daylight, so he 
played his stupid part, ate the fried fish that 


57 


58 


Olea 


Shorty brought him and tasted a sip of the “moon- 
shine” which, despite its rawness, revived his 
spirits somewhat as he carefully thought out his 
plans for action. 

Along towards midnight the Captain and Shorty 
appeared in the cave, both very much the worse 
for liquor; they roughly pulled at the rope to see 
if Karl was securely tied; then the Captain, with 
an oath, informed his prisoner that it was “too 

d hot fer gen’lemen to sleep in the parler — 

the likes o’ ye kin snooze hyer — th’ smoonslight ’s 
good ’nuff fer me! Don’ let the porkys ’sturb 
yer res’ — s’ long, Dutchy!” — and he took an old 
pile of bags and a big black satchel and crawled 
back through the tunnel, yelling to Shorty to fetch 
the lantern and help him haul out his load. 

Occasional sounds, brawlings and cursings, came 
to Karl through the grotto opening, but gradually 
they grew faint and discordant, and soon all was 
quiet as a silent tomb. 

Cautiously Karl crawled from the bunk where 
he lay and, placing his broad shoulders against 
the solid wall of the cavern, began to pull steadily 
on the rope fastened to the post in the rocks. It 
was as fixed and solid as a pine stump, not budg- 
ing an inch, though Karl, without the use of his 
hands, pulled and tugged with all the strength he 
could command. 

At last, when he was nearly exhausted and his 
shoulders and back had begun to bleed and pain 
him, he thought he felt a slight slack in the rope 


THe NigHt Raid 


59 


and he nerved himself for a final effort. Bracing 
himself firmly against the rocks, he gave a mighty 
tug, and the long post slipped from the crevice 
and fell to the earthen floor with a thud. With 
fresh vigor Karl groped at the end of his rope in 
the darkness, when accidentally his foot struck 
against the half-buried handle of an old grub-hoe; 
kneeling down he felt the soft, green moss covering 
it as it lay in the damp clay. Loosening it, he 
ran his tied hands along the handle until he felt 
the cold, dull blade of the old hoe; then working 
his hands slowly up and down the rusty iron edge 
he felt the rope grating and wearing away. It 
was tedious work, but finally the last strand snapped 
and freed his benumbed hands; he quickly untied 
his feet and stood up in the cave, dazed but 
determined. 

Stealthily he crawled through the tunnel till he 
could see the flickering camp-fire near the pond- 
hole. Seated on a box near the table, with his 
arms outstretched upon it and his head pillowed 
in them, reposed one of the mountaineers ; a 
companion sprawled on a blanket in front of the 
fire ; a half-filled bottle and two tin cups stood on 
the table, and Karl knew at a glance that his 
guards were dead drunk, for the man on the table 
was mumbling in an incoherent way and the other 
one snored loudly and heavily. 

Silently Karl slipped through the narrow open- 
ing of the cavern and made a quick dash for the 
woods. Looking back, as he ran, he saw the two 


6o 


Olea 


Hicks there in the glow of the camp-fire, sprawling 
out, unconscious and undisturbed. 

He ran most of the way down the dark valley, 
across the stream to the place where he had tied 
his horse in the early morning. The hungry little 
animal gave a low whinny of recognition as Karl 
mounted and galloped furiously down the creek 
to the main road leading to New Bergen. 

Karl surmised that the outlaws would attempt 
to rob the well-filled bam of Knude Ericsson first ; 
so he dismounted, and, making a short detour of 
the house, he crossed the stream and groped his 
way up the path leading to his place. When he 
neared the little bam he stopped and listened in- 
tently, but not a sound was heard, so he cautiously 
slipped up to the house and knocked softly on the 
door. The shepherd dog barked sharply, but 
Karl repeated the rap, and a man’s voice from 
within muttered sleepily, “Ach! Who is it?” 
Karl rattled the latch very carefully. With a grunt, 
the big Norwegian sprang from his bed and opened 
the door. He was about to call out in a loud voice, 
but Karl’s uplifted hand warned him. “Hist!” 
he whispered. “It’s Karl. Quick! the Hicks 
are coming!” He slid inside, and in a low voice 
told Knude to get ready, and in a jiffy the old 
fellow was dressed and standing beside Karl, with 
a huge club in his hand, ready for battle. From 
a little side bedroom a low frightened voice called 
out, “Karl! Karl! Was ist es?” “Robbers!” 
whispered Karl. “Stay there, Olea. We will soon 


THe NigHt Raid 


61 


be back” — as he and her father slipped out into 
the darkness and crept ’round the building. 

As they did so, they indistinctly recognized 
the figures of several men near the little bam. 
Coming nearer they saw that one of the men was 
filling a bag with com, and another was loading 
some plunder into a big sack held by a third robber. 
At a signal from Karl the two men uttered a terrific 
shriek and fell upon the mountaineers before they 
had time to move from their tracks. The old 
giant swung right and left with his club and at his 
first blow one of the Hicks was sprawling senseless 
on the ground. Karl grappled with the big Cap- 
tain who shouted to his pals to stand and help him. 
But the Hicks ran, terror-stricken, in every direc- 
tion, — some into the creek and others over the 
fences into the highway, leaving their leader to 
fight it out with Karl alone. One or two shots 
were fired, which, added to the general uproar, 
brought the people from the houses in general 
confusion, and among them came Helga Olson, 
already equipped for the fray. 

Meanwhile, Karl fought with the Captain, who 
succeeded in dealing him some brutal kicks with his 
spiked shoes; but Karl met his second onrush, and, 
with a full blow in the face, knocked the brawny 
Hick to the ground. Knude Ericsson fell upon him 
and half strangled him in his mighty grip, while 
Karl slipped a sack over his head and the two 
mountaineers were captured, as their pals slunk 
away in the darkness. 


62 


Olea 


The bound prisoners (the other captured Hick 
proved to be the dauntless Shorty) were locked in 
the rear of the comer store till morning. Helga, 
wishing no doubt to have some part in the adven- 
ture, volunteered to escort the two outlaws to the 
county-seat, — which he did on the morrow, and 
safely lodged them both in the Coudersport 
jail. 

After the excitement of the night had subsided, 
they all repaired to Ericsson’s house where Karl 
related his experiences with the Hicks at the pond- 
holes, omitting, however, to state that he had 
been tied hand and foot for a whole day, and how 
he had planned his escape to warn the Norwegians. 

But the people well guessed his good motives 
by the result of his exploit, and were loud in their 
praises, thanking Karl again and again for his 
courageous action. Olea was especially happy 
and proud of her hero as she saw her people rally 
’round him; and she knew that the events of the 
night had done much to change the strained rela- 
tions of the two communities. 

She brought bandages and bound up Karl’s 
ugly spike wounds, which were very painful, though 
not serious ; and she watched over him till morning 
when Syken Knude graciously offered to take him 
to Germania, where the reports of the attempted 
raid on the settlers had preceded them. The big 
Norwegian was almost as much of a hero as Karl 
at Germania, for both peoples had suddenly come 
to realize that they were really bound together 


THe NigKt Raid 63 

by many common ties, for their mutual protection 
and support. 

At daybreak a party of Norwegians and Germans 
went up to the head of Little Kettle Creek, but 
they found only a smouldering camp-fire and some 
empty bottles and rubbish scattered ’round the 
cave . The stalwart Hicks had hurriedly abandoned 
their merry rendezvous at the little pond-holes. 


CHAPTER XI 

THE “WILD BOY” 

T HE East Fork of the Sinnamahoning is, as has 
been stated, one of the principal tributaries 
of the Susquehanna. 

Although somewhat removed from the early 
scenes of trial and privation which Kettle Creek 
knew in its colonization days, this country has a 
history, which, while not as important here perhaps, 
is nevertheless full of local interest and charm. 

Before the timber was removed from the hills, 
the East Fork was a favorite resort of hunters and 
fishermen who frequented these parts in the sum- 
mer and fall and camped on the streams or “put 
up” at the cabins of the hospitable natives. The 
main branch is a beautiful stream, with the nu- 
merous little runs emptying into it from each side, 
— the Shingle Bolt, Horton Run, Elk Lick, the Wild 
Boy, Reed’s, Brooks’s, and Stone Runs, — a veritable 
jumble of pure mountain rivulets surge out of these 
forests ! 

In these western hills, somewhere near the 
head of the East Fork, there lived at this time, 

64 


THe “Wild Boy” 65 

in the seclusion of the wilderness, a strange and 
solitary person, — a hermit of the mountains. 

Who he was, or what he was, or how he came to 
lead this lonely and secluded life no one seemed to 
know. Very few persons had ever actually seen 
him, so to most people there he was more of a 
strange myth or superstition than any real person. 

Karl had seen him, or thought he had, rather, 
on one of his hunting trips into the East Fork 
district; and a few old settlers along the creek 
had occasionally told that they had seen a man, 
or boy (for it seemed that he appeared quite 
young despite his long hair and grim features), 
when they had been deer or bear hunting far up on 
the barrens towards the “ Black Hole.” 

It was said that when seen he would always utter 
a fierce, unintelligible cry and quickly disappear 
into the woods. The general belief was that he 
lived in a log hut near the head of one of the 
branches of the East Fork; that he lived on trout 
and venison and wild berries, and wore rough 
clothing of bear and deer skins, with a fur cap and 
patched leather boots. 

An old and respected settler, who first cleared 
a small farm and built a log cabin at the mouth of 
the Wild Boy, — a pioneer of Sinnamahoning who 
for many years lived there with his hospitable 
family, and entertained the hunters and fishermen 
who frequently came to this beautiful spot in the 
mountains to eat of his venison and hear his droll 
stories, or perchance to camp for a week in the 


66 


Olea 


cabin across the East Fork, — glorious memories 
these of a country forever mystic and sweet in its 
primitive charm, — well, this old pioneer loved 
dearly to tell, in a quaint and characteristic way, 
which would fill a young listener with awe and 
amazement, of the fame and career of the “Wild 
Boy.” 

To the credulous inquirer, he would, with a 
grave and solemn mien quite his own, make it 
appear that the “Wild Boy” was a ferocious and 
terrible creature, — half man and half beast ! 
And that only the bravest fisherman dared venture 
very far up the stream, in the evening, for fear of 
being attacked and perhaps dragged to the hut 
of this fierce demon who lived on the plunder that 
fell across his path. 

Then again, to the old hunters and fishermen, 
sitting ’round the gnat smudge in front of his 
cabin, nodding and smoking their pipes, this old 
pioneer would admit, with a sly wink and lisping 
drawl, that the “Wild Boy” was no fabulous 
monster but was only a melancholy, half-demented 
fellow by the name of Reed; that he was as silent 
and uncouth as he was harmless and kind; and 
that was all the real information old Sammy 
was ever able or willing to impart concerning him. 

From these numerous stories and legends, and 
partly because of the general superstition of the 
natives themselves, it came to be generally be- 
lieved that such a character really did exist some- 
where in the East Fork country, but nothing 


The “Wild Boy” 67 

more definite was actually known of him or his 
history. 

So, through positive terror and fear of this 
unknown denizen of the forest, he became known 
far and wide, throughout all these regions, as the 
“Wild Boy”; and the little stream upon which he 
was supposed to dwell took the same name, 
which, throughout all the changes and subse- 
quent history of busy “Hulltown,” it has retained 
to this day. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE QUEST OF THE “ HOG’S BACK” 

I T was early in the following December when 
Karl, one morning, shouldered his gun and 
started out ’cross country to reach the old turn- 
pike, intending to be gone several days on a still 
hunt for deer, which at that season were always 
plentiful in the forests of southeastern Potter. 

A light tracking snow had fallen the night 
before, which glistened and sparkled, and the air 
was clear and cutting cold as he tramped over the 
ridges, following the unbroken trail along the 
“hog’s back” which stretched like an irregular 
chalk-line, scintillating through the dark green 
pall of the hemlocks. 

Long before midday he had passed the “Three 
Sisters” and crossed Hopper House hollow, resting 
for a while at the shanty which was then, and for 
years afterwards, dignified by the name of “The 
Hopper House,” a turnpike stopping place recall- 
ing memories of old John Hopper, whose venture- 
some spouse, it is said, had raised the national 
banners at the “Lion Tent,” a few years before. 
Here and there in the snow Karl noticed with 
68 


THe Quest of tHe 44 Hog’s BacK ” 69 

interest the tiny tracks of the red squirrels as they 
circled ’round the fallen trees and led to the hollows 
within, where, safe from the enemies of the woods, 
the frisky fellows, with stored acorns and beech- 
nuts a-plenty, await the coming of spring. 

For a mile or more along the turnpike the 
young hunter followed the fresh track of a fox, 
as, with one round footprint ahead of the other, 
he kept a straight course by the roadside until 
he reached the high ground, where the sly rascal 
had back-tracked and leaped far out of the road 
to some rocks, there to breakfast perchance on a 
rabbit or bird. 

Near the Cross Fork junction Karl saw some 
large claw-like tracks of a black bear which had, 
he well guessed, crossed the road in the early 
morning and plunged straight ahead into the 
thickest of brambles and bushes, as the beast, 
with marvelous precision and strength had pur- 
sued his uninterrupted way through the windfalls 
and barrens to some inaccessible den in the thick 
of the jungles. 

Towards nightfall Karl began to grow some- 
what tired and footsore. Not finding fresh signs of 
big game to his liking, he decided to camp for the 
night at a deserted hunter’s cabin at Cherry 
Springs. This old log hut stood near the site of 
the famed forest inn, known later as the Cherry 
Springs Hotel, which for many years stood alone 
in this clearing in the wilderness, — the only human 
habitation for ten or fifteen miles in either direction. 


70 


Olea 


Karl bagged a fat partridge from a covey that 
put up from a bed of wet leaves and moss under the 
beech trees, and, in coming across the chestnut 
ridge east of the “Springs,” he shot a large black 
squirrel, which was chattering loudly high up in 
the chestnut timber. He dressed his game and 
broiled it on the coals in the open fireplace in the 
old cabin, and soon after his supper he stretched 
out to rest on the hemlock boughs before the fire. 

The bristling and busy hedgehogs, prowling 
’round the cabin, kept him awake for a while with 
their gnawing and grunting, but Karl was soon 
sound asleep and up the next morning at daybreak. 
After breakfast he struck out at a brisk gait for 
Shingle-bolt hollow, leaving the turnpike and 
turning south into the East Fork country, where 
he knew he was sure to find deer. 

On his tramp during the day Karl noticed many 
little pointed sheep-like tracks in the snow, which 
crisscrossed each other in a bewildering maze; 
he found a few places where the timid animals had, 
evidently some nights before, wallowed and fed, 
and, with the first blush of dawn, had probably 
scampered away to some sheltered retreat on the 
highest point on the hills. He closely examined 
the bushes where the deer had nibbled the bark, 
showing plainly that they were hungry and feed- 
ing, so Karl determined to push on to the head of 
Horton Run and spend the next night watching 
the “lick” which was located there. 

This famous old deer-lick was hidden within a 


THe Quest of tHe “Hog’s BacK “ 71 

laurel swamp on a small tract of level low ground 
on the divide near the head of the Horton; being 
on a runway, which deer always follow, it was 
most favorably located in a natural feeding and 
stamping ground. Occasionally some old hunter 
or trapper would “salt the lick,” as they called 
it, and they had built there, in the forks of a big 
beech tree, about twenty-five feet from the ground, 
a small sheltered platform on which the deer hunter 
would perch and silently await, throughout the 
long night, the coming of an unsuspecting deer. 

Karl reached the Horton about nightfall and 
examined the lick, finding that it had been recently 
“salted”; he knew that, although it was late in 
the season for watching a lick, if the weather 
kept lowery and the wind from the south, the 
chances that night would be fair, at least, for big 
game. Without building a fire or disturbing the 
slushy bottoms of the lick, Karl ate a cold lunch, 
a biscuit and piece of fried meat from his hunt- 
ing bag, and, clambering to the blind, he turned 
up his fur collar, put on his woolen mittens, 
cocked his gun, rested it across his knees, and 
waited. 

Towards midnight the wind began to increase 
a little, then a wet snow commenced falling; Karl 
was almost numb with cold, and was nodding in spite 
of himself, against the mossy side of the big tree. 
Save the creaking of the swaying branches, and the 
monotonous whistle of the wind through the frozen 
tree-tops, not a sound broke the silent watch of 


72 


Olea 


the somber night. Yet now and then a grunting 
porcupine would come down to the lick and gnaw 
on a salty limb for a few minutes and then wabble 
away into the underbrush; from far away, where 
a fluffy bird huddled high in a hemlock, or from 
some lonely pine on the top of the opposite moun- 
tain, came, at regular intervals, the dismal and mel- 
ancholy call of a solitary hoot-owl, the faint echo 
leaving the deserted and lonesome swamp-ground 
as silent as before. 

It must have been nearly morning when Karl 
was aroused by a sharp snorting sound coming 
from some little distance from the lick. He 
straightened up and listened, but immediately 
all was quiet again. In a few minutes a twig 
snapped and Karl distinctly heard something 
pawing vigorously in the direction of the north 
runway. It was not quite light enough to see 
well, but Karl peered fixedly in the direction of 
the sound. Indistinctly against the white snow- 
covered surface of the north end of the lick, a 
bulky animal form appeared through the thicket, 
followed closely by a second, and then by a third 
form, the last so much smaller than the others 
that he could hardly distinguish its outline between 
the two larger ones. Karl knew that one of the 
animals was undoubtedly a large buck, probably 
with a doe and young fawn. 

As they were pawing and circling around in 
the lick, Karl thought he could make out the huge 
antlers of the buck; deliberately he took careful 


THe Quest of tHe “ Hog’s BacK ” 73 

aim between them. At the crack of his gun a 
loud snort went up, then a splashing and crash- 
ing in the underbrush and slush, as the doe and 
fawn dashed madly away. A low gurgling sound 
arose from the edge of the lick, which told Karl 
that his aim had been true. He quickly slid down 
from the blind and ran to the dying deer. He was 
a magnificent fellow ; immense in his proud propor- 
tions, and with a beautiful pair of horns which 
resembled the branching pronged antlers of an elk. 
Truly the red deer is a magnificent animal; and 
in Potter County indeed the proud monarch of all 
he surveys! 

At daybreak Karl dressed the buck and hung 
the saddles, tied to a sapling, high in a tree, as is 
the custom with hunters, who thus protect and 
mark their big game until some native or guide 
can assist in getting it out of the woods. 

After a breakfast of venison broiled on a stick 
over his fire, the young hunter set out for the 
mouth of the Wild Boy to get the old settler 
there to go with him to the lick up the Horton 
to bring in his game. Karl especially wanted to 
preserve the beautiful set of horns and have them 
mounted; this he afterwards did, and in later 
years this trophy of the East Fork still adorned 
the walls of the “ Schuetzen-Verein ” at Germania. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE LURE OF THE EAST FORK 

A HALF-DOZEN miles farther down the main 
branch of the East Fork, flanked on both 
sides with its laurel-wreathed and evergreen hills, 
below the old splash-dam and the corduroy bridges, 
sheltering numberless mountain brooks and trout 
streams, the famous little Wild Boy empties its 
clear, limpid waters into this chief tributary of the 
Sinnamahoning. 

In winter this picturesque valley is snow-clad 
and drear in its dull mantle of white and green; 
but in early spring-time the winter green berries, 
flavored with the essence of the woods, glow red in 
a bed of dark leaves, carpeting the knolls and 
hollows of the forest. Later the twin-leaved 
and pungent leek appears, — persistent and much 
maligned. The banks of the streams soon grow 
bright yellow with golden dandelions and blossom 
with lovely spring violets; the woods become 
fragrant in the bloom of the delicate, wax-like 
flowers of the trailing arbutus, and the pink azalea, 
or wild honeysuckle, fills the mountain air with its 
sweet perfume. In late summer and autumn the 
74 


The I/ure of tHe Cast ForK 


75 


goldenrod and blackberry bushes cover the 
windfalls and barrens, while the wildwood fern, 
delicate and graceful, plumes the edge of the 
timber lands. Most lovely of all, when in blossom, 
is the wild rhododendron — native flower of the 
Alleghenies, of whose rich beauty the poet Emer- 
son sings — yes, most gorgeous of all is the rare 
rhododendron, brilliantly blooming in impene- 
trable thickets along Potter County headwaters 
of the old Susquehanna. 

This country had always possessed a peculiar 
fascination for Karl, since it was near here that 
he had once caught a glimpse of the boy hermit 
of the mountains, standing melancholy and alone 
near the bank of the little Wild Boy. 

As he trudged along to Hull’s cabin that winter 
morning, Karl wondered if he ever would find any 
one who could tell him the sad story of the “Wild 
Boy,” — but in this hope he was disappointed, as the 
whole of that life history was doubtless unknown, 
even to the versatile though rather taciturn char- 
acter who lived at the small clearing at the mouth 
of the stream. 

Karl was warmly welcomed at the plain log 
cabin home, and soon had a couple of natives, who 
had a team down the creek, willingly employed 
to get the big buck out of the Horton and take 
it on a bob-sled to Germania. 

This done, Karl decided to spend a day or two 
hunting and exploring, up in the fascinating re- 
cesses of the Wild Boy region. So after a rest 


76 


Olea 


and a good dinner, he said good-bye to old Sammy 
and his hospitable family, and turned up the 
branch which winds its way up in the mountains 
towards the “Black Hole” — lured on both by 
curiosity and pure love of adventure. 

He walked meditatively along up the stream 
for perhaps three or four miles without seeing 
scarcely a living thing or hearing a sound, except, 
now and then, the splash of some little animal as it 
leaped from a log into the water, and swam, with 
bead-like eyes aglow, for the opposite bank ; or the 
occasional “wh-i-r-r-r” of a partridge, suddenly 
putting up, ruffled and crested; or perhaps, once 
or twice, the skurrying sound of a rabbit as it 
darted, white tipped, through the bushes. 

Soon a light snow began to fall and the early 
December darkness cast a sudden gloom through- 
out the woods. Karl had reached a high cliff, 
projecting from one side of the narrow valley, 
which overhung the stream, winding in and out 
at its base, making it difficult to pass farther up 
the ravine. He saw that by making a short 
detour along the side of the mountain, he would be 
able to reach the top of the cliff, from which posi- 
tion he could doubtless get a good view far up 
and down the valley. He could at least take his 
bearings from that point, and then he would set 
out on his return before the rapidly approaching 
darkness had enveloped the dismal forest. 

He reached the summit of the rocky cliff with 
some difficulty, and stood, quite exhausted, lean- 


THe L\ire of tKe East ForK 77 

in g on his gun, at the very edge of the precipitous 
chasm. Suddenly he thought he heard a low 
moan or cry coming from almost directly beneath 
him. Looking cautiously over the brink, Karl 
was positive he saw a movement or swaying of 
the bushes close down by the water’s edge. He 
leaned slightly over the rocky ledge and, in the 
gathering darkness, he beheld indistinctly the 
grim and shaggy form of a creature which sent a 
chill of terror through his body and filled him with 
sudden and strange alarm. Instantly he thought 
of the uncouth boy hermit, and he was sure 
that he now beheld, for the second time, the 
unknown and terrible “Wild Boy” of the East 
Fork. 

Weird and terrifying as the sight was to Karl, 
it lasted only for an instant. Turning quickly 
to regain a firm position, his foot slipped on the 
icy rock, and for a second he trembled on the very 
brink of the precipice. He grasped instinctively 
at a slippery and treacherous boulder and clung 
close to a crevice in the rocks to try to save himself 
from the terrible fall ! 

During that awful moment his thoughts ran 
swiftly over the whole history of his young life! 
Like quick lightning flashes, there rushed through 
his mind thoughts of his home — his friends — the 
Fatherland — the Norwegians — and Olea — his Olea! 
He almost called aloud her name ! 

The next thing Karl was conscious of was that 


78 


Olea 


his fall was being partly broken by the roots of 
some projecting trees and bushes which were 
scratching and tearing him terribly ! Then he shut 
his eyes tightly, and that was all he remembered. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE FAILURE OF THE COLONY 

HE cold, hard winter of *56-57 had finally 



1 passed, and spring had come again to cheer 
the saddened Northmen in Potter County. 

And a very dreary winter it had been at the 
little village of Germania. True, the people were 
prosperous and contented there; but a gloom, 
which even the sunny days of returning summer 
could not dissipate, had hung heavily over the 
community ever since that December day when 
Karl Wagner had disappeared so suddenly from 
among them. 

No tidings of him had ever been received. Not 
a single trace of his whereabouts could be found. 
All the ingenuity and resources of his people were 
exhausted in the vain effort to find him. Through- 
out the long winter parties and expeditions were 
organized to search the mountains and streams 
and all the favorite haunts where Karl had been 
accustomed to go, but they always returned with- 
out a single clue. 

Instinctively, some of Karl’s German friends 
connected his sudden disappearance with the poor, 


79 


8o 


Olea 


guiltless Norwegians. To their minds it was not 
at all improbable that Karl, owing to some jealousy 
he might have unwittingly aroused in some of the 
young Norwegians on account of his love for Olea, 
had met with his misfortune at their hands. Some 
settlers along Kettle Creek and at Germania 
naturally imagined that Helga Olson must in some 
way be connected with the mysterious affair. 

But all these suspicions were unfounded, and 
the innocent Norsemen emphatically denied any 
knowledge of the unfortunate affair; they gener- 
ously offered to assist the Germans in any way in 
their power to gain any information concerning Karl, 
to whom many of them had become deeply attached. 
Though these offers were generally refused by the 
independent Germans, both peoples felt keenly 
the mutual loss of their courageous young leader 
and friend. 

Olea, sad and broken-hearted, could not com- 
prehend it all. It seemed too sudden, too unreal. 
In her grief, during the long winter months she 
watched and waited for Karl’s return, but not 
even a single message from him ever came. She 
had not suspected Helga — he was too indolent to 
care. He cared for her in his apathetic and stoical 
way, but she knew it would never occur to him to 
attempt to harm his rival — he was too egotistical 
and indifferent for that. One day she asked him 
timidly if he would not take some of the young 
men from the settlements and try to find Karl. 
He noticed her agitation then, for the tremor in 


THe Failure of tHe Colony 81 

her voice and the bright red color around her eyes 
must have betrayed her emotion and deep concern. 
Yet Helga, in his slow half-hearted manner, prom- 
ised her he would soon go to find him — “be- 
cause,” he said, “I am a friend of the Germans, 
and — because — ” he hesitated, “because — I know 
you love him.” 

Everything seemed to be going against the ill-fated 
Scandinavian colony. They had labored against 
every obstacle and disappointment in a vain effort 
to establish themselves in their Pennsylvania 
home. But the enthusiasm that had urged them 
on during the first year of pioneer life had long 
since begun to wane. Experience had taught 
them that, after all, it is no easy matter to undergo 
the privations necessary to turn a wilderness into 
a civilized community, and they realized how 
unfitted they were for the task. 

Owing to alarming reports which were circu- 
lated concerning the titles to their lands, the good 
faith and credit of the colonists had been seriously 
attacked. This uncertainty of tenure, exaggerated 
by vindictive stories and persecutions, undoubtedly 
prevented the recruiting colonists, who had long been 
expected from Norway and Denmark, from under- 
taking the venture, and no more emigrants came. 

Ole Bull, with all his genius and patriotism, 
was impulsive and visionary. But the ideals and 
aspirations of his youth were those of his age. 
He was a generous, sensitive, trustful man, his 

6 


82 


Olea 


sympathetic nature and his needs making him an 
easy victim for designing persons. There is no 
doubt but that his magnanimous efforts at Norse 
colonization in America were, in their disastrous 
results, a bitter disappointment to him. He had, 
of course, invested large sums of money in the 
very land on which his people were located; the 
support of the colony had been a severe drain on 
his resources, and because of his lack of business 
instinct for details, much of this money had been 
wasted and squandered by the dishonest agents 
connected with his projects. 

Ole Bull was ill in San Francisco, at the end of a 
trying concert tour of the South, when he first learned 
that he had been victimized by a land swindle; 
that the titles to his lands in Potter County were 
so defective that his countrymen were in immedi- 
ate danger of losing their homes. He was dumb- 
founded and sick at heart! When at last he was 
able to reach Pennsylvania, he rode on horseback, 
without rest, to Philadelphia to see his lawyer and 
agent concerning his conveyances. To his amaze- 
ment it proved that a Mr. Stewardson, a wealthy 
Quaker of Philadelphia, was the legal owner of most 
of the immense tract of land Ole Bull had innocently 
purchased, through other parties, along Kettle 
Creek, and in Abbott and Stewardson townships, 
in Potter County. 

Ole Bull was furious with anger and resentment 
as he confronted the swindlers and demanded the 
titles to his lands. In vain the disreputable agent 


THe Failure of tHe Colony 83 

tried to calm and quiet him, suggesting that the 
artist eat something and rest before they nego- 
tiated. Though weak and faint from hi$ long 
ride, he felt a sudden aversion to the food the 
rascal set before him and refused even to drink a 
cup of tea. At last, driven to desperation by the 
excited musician, the land grafter exclaimed, 
tauntingly, “I have your money; now do your 
worst.” 

Some years after this incident, it is said, the 
sister of this unscrupulous agent told Ole Bull that 
the man, on his death-bed, had confessed to her 
that he had poisoned the food and cup of tea he 
tried to persuade the artist to take, and to which 
he had felt so strange an aversion. 

Undaunted by the endless litigation and perse- 
cution this land fraud entailed, Ole Bull immedi- 
ately repurchased from Mr. Stewardson, who was 
interested in the efforts to plant a colony there, 
enough of the land to protect the people who had 
established permanent homes, and to secure their 
improvements. Some of these, as has been related, 
were sold to the Germans. But many of the colon- 
ists, becoming discouraged, were closing up their 
curved-roofed houses along Kettle Creek, and 
were scattering to various places. 

Ole Bull’s famous castle was denuded of its 
beautiful tapestry; the cotton fabric was taken 
from the walls and made into petticoats for the 
poor Norwegian women. The costly hangings 
and the paper brought from over the seas, embla- 


84 


Olea 


zoned with the Norwegian arms, was stripped down 
and carried away. Even the musician’s favorite 
violin, the old Guamerius, was attached for debt; 
but with sublime courage he gave himself feverishly 
to his concert work to retrieve his shattered fortune. 

Ole Bull returned to Norway in the fall of 1857 
and never again visited the scenes of his colonial 
venture in Potter County. In the spring of that 
year only a dozen or more families remained at 
Oleona and New Bergen to perpetuate the 
memory of the failure at Norse colonization in 
Pennsylvania. 

The review of the life of Ole Bull belongs to the 
biographer and historian. Here, we must leave 
the career of the great artist with only a parting 
glance. 

Jules Janin, the French critic, truly said of him: 
“His violin is his love, his art, his life!” And of 
his art, as of his patriotism, the musician’s own 
words, written in 1842, come back to us with all 
the force of prophecy: “Art is ever dearly 
bought, and the true artist easily deceived, for it 
is only by renouncing the material good that he 
may obtain the divine happiness of following the 
guidance of his imagination and creative power. 
To understand himself rightly, he must renounce 
all else, give himself wholly to his art, and fight 
ignorance and stupidity. I am not the man to 
give up the battle, but how many wounds and 
blows before one reaches the goal!” 


THe Failure of tHe Colony 85 

It is but just to say that Ole Bull reached the 
highest goal in his art, and established his repu- 
tation as the greatest violinist of his time. During 
many years after his failure at colonization in 
Pennsylvania the old musician made successful 
concert tours of the United States; but he loved 
his own land and its people most of all, and it was 
his wish that he might die there, — in “ My country, 
my Norway, of which I am proud.” 

It has been said that “Norway loved him be- 
cause he loved Norway,” and, prophetically, the 
last piece the old musician ever played was his 
celebrated composition of forty years before, 
The Mountains of Norway. 

After reaching the good old age of threescore 
years and ten, he returned for the last time to his 
home on the Island of Lysoen, off the coast of the 
beloved land of his birth, and there, on August 
17, 1880 the old musician-patriot died. 

His body was escorted by sixteen steamers to 
his birthplace at old Bergen, and, it is recorded, “As 
the fleet approached the harbor slowly, guns, fired 
from the fort and answered by the steamers, 
echoed and reechoed among the mountains. The 
harbor and shipping were covered with flags of all 
nations, at half-mast, the whole world paying its 
last tribute to a genius which the whole world had 
learned to know and love.” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE RETURN 

O LEA’S father had decided to join the next 
little company of colonists to leave America 
and return to Norway. 

Syken Knude Ericsson was, at heart, more loyal 
than many of his countrymen, and had, at first, 
strongly advised them to remain, at whatever 
cost, in their new and adopted country. He was 
one of the more favored kinsmen whom Ole Bull, 
in the kindness of his heart, had protected by the 
repurchase of the land; and his little home, with 
its small patch of cultivated ground, had been 
deeded to him in fee. But through inexperience 
or bad management, Syken Knude had soon 
gotten into debt again, and in order to save his 
home he had appealed, in confidence, to some of 
his German acquaintances for financial aid. 

Old Rudolf Wagner, who was then one of the 
most prosperous citizens of Germania as well as 
the village doctor and Justice of the Peace, had 
come to Ericsson’s assistance and had paid the 
indebtedness and taken a mortgage on the little 
home at New Bergen. 


86 



Ole Bull 

Photogravure 














1 
































The Return 


87 


Karl’s father was a generous, open-hearted 
German, and he had willingly offered to allow 
Syken Knude and his family to remain on the 
little place near the forks of the road, and pay off 
the mortgage at their own convenience; out of 
consideration for Olea, the doctor told her, with 
a sad but kindly smile, that, since Karl had gone, 
he was glad to be able to do that much for the 
unfortunate people whom he had always hoped to 
aid, as Karl had wished. 

But Syken Knude was discouraged and dis- 
heartened by the absence of his friends and the 
failure of all their cherished plans; he was finally 
persuaded to give up his home to Rudolf Wagner, 
satisfying the mortgage against it, and to quit 
forever the land which had brought so much 
sadness into his life, and to return with his family 
to old Bergen in the far-away northern peninsula. 

It was the day before their departure. Olea 
had wandered up the little stream and was sitting, 
wrapped in sad reflection, on the very spot where 
she had first met Karl — at the curve of the path 
near the water’s edge. How quiet and deserted 
everything seemed to her! Even the balmy 
April air had lulled itself into an approaching 
evening calm. On the opposite hillside a thrifty 
farmer was diligently plowing a small patch of 
cleared new ground, now and again calling out 
lustily, “Haw!” “Gee!” to his team. At the 
edge of the woods above him, near the clump of 
pine trees, a noisy flock of crows circled ’round, 


88 


Olea 


cawing shrilly, as they do in spring-time. She 
watched the little brook trout as they darted in 
and out under the logs and brush in the stream 
and occasionally flopped with a splash on the top 
of the water, when a white- winged miller chanced 
to glide too near the smooth surface. 

Olea was thinking of Karl, and of how he had 
so mysteriously left her; and she was silently 
bidding farewell forever to all these dear associa- 
tions. At first she had not been able to realize 
that Karl had gone, perhaps never to return — 
never to claim her as his bride. Yet when no 
message came, with the return of spring, the 
realization of her loneliness and desolation dawned 
fully upon her. The sunshine had brought no 
gladness to her heart; she found no pleasure in 
her former joyous pastimes, and the sweetness had 
gone from the old familiar haunts. Every vale 
and hill, every curve in Little Kettle Creek, and 
every mossy pathway by its shady banks brought 
back some recollection of Karl. He was never — 
could never be — out of her mind. 

Presently Olea was aroused from her meditations 
by the rumbling of a wagon coming down the 
turnpike. In a few minutes a team emerged into 
the open valley with a platform wagon containing 
three men. She watched them indifferently as 
they drove rapidly along, until they suddenly 
halted before the vacant house where Olea had 
lived. At the loud, “Who-o-a” she at once 
recognized the driver as Helga Olson, and, 


THe Return. 


89 


standing up, she tried to distinguish the two men 
muffled up in the back seat. One of them slowly 
alighted from the wagon and approached the 
house. When he reached the battered gate near 
the spring he halted abruptly and stood staring 
at the little curved-roofed house with its demol- 
ished stone chimney and bare, closed windows. 

He remained standing motionless for a full 
minute, while Olea watched him intently, her 
interest now being fully aroused. Then he turned 
and made a motion to his companions in the wagon. 
The spell was broken. Olea recognized that sim- 
ple motion of the hand, and instantly the truth 
flashed upon her. It was Karl ! 

Dodging through the bushes, Olea fairly flew 
along the winding path and down the road — rushed 
past Helga and his companion in the wagon, up to 
the old gate by the spring, and fell breathless and 
exhausted into Karl’s arms. He raised her gently 
and kissed her flushed cheek and trembling lips; 
then he opened the gate and seated her tenderly 
on the rustic seat in front of the vacant house. 

Neither spoke for a moment, but Olea’s well- 
remembered words were ringing in his ears, 
“Then you will always be welcome at New 
Bergen,” and, in his embarrassment, he repeated 
them to her, adding shyly: “That will be our 
motto, Olea, which will at last unite our people; 
and you and I, little Sweetheart, will make them 
happy and contented again.” 

Olea scarcely answered, but, snuggling close 


90 


Olea 


to him, her eyes wandered toward the deserted 
houses down the valley. She was crying now, 
and filled with sadly sweet emotions, as she told 
him that the Norwegian dream of colonization 
had ended — that, save the few remaining families, 
she was left almost alone amid the desolation of 
her girlhood’s home. 

Helga and the stranger from the East Fork 
drove quietly away and left them there, in the 
gathering twilight, beside the old spring. Karl 
took her, unresisting, in his arms and kissed her 
again and again, as she promised to remain there 
with him — always — in the valley of Little Kettle 
Creek — with their Germania just over the hill. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE HERMIT’S HOME 

K ARL’S story was soon told. His accident in 
the mountains had been a painful and serious 
one. When he regained consciousness, after his 
terrible fall from the rocky cliff, he found himself 
on a bed of hemlock boughs in a dingy little cave 
in the side of the mountain, in front of which, 
and partly concealed by the rocks and bushes, a 
rude log hut had been constructed. It was the 
home of the mysterious “ Wild Boy” — the hermit 
of the mountains. 

This strange, half-demented creature had been 
Karl’s nurse and attendant throughout the long 
winter months, when he lay at his mercy, lingering 
between life and death. And he had been kind to 
Karl, in his silent, uncouth way, and had nursed 
him back to life and strength. But those were 
terrible, lonely months for the injured and helpless 
man. They had lived on wild game, and broth, 
and a coarse kind of brown bread which the “Wild 
Boy” prepared from his frugal store; he hunted, 
and trapped and fished, but never, while Karl 
was there did he venture out to civilization. 

When Karl, at last slowly growing stronger, 
91 


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Olea 


began to take an interest in his surroundings, he 
attempted to learn the secret of the life of the 
“Wild Boy.” But the hermit became dumb and 
frightful whenever that subject was mentioned. 
He would sometimes speak kindly, though almost 
incoherently, with Karl, concerning his painful 
accident, and he showed by his every action his 
faithful care for his unbidden but welcome guest. 
And he must have understood and sympathized; 
but when Karl would sometimes speak of the 
“Wild Boy’s” strange and solitary existence, he 
would glare fiercely at him and mumble one of his 
savage oaths, showing plainly that the subject 
was never to be mentioned. 

With this strange companion Karl remained as 
a prisoner and patient for over three months, 
without any intercourse with the outside world. 
As soon as the snow had gone, he was able to catch 
brook trout in the creek that wound close to 
the rocks near the cabin; once or twice he ven- 
tured a short way up in the woods with the “Wild 
Boy” in search of ginseng, which, like the four- 
leaved clover, is uncommonly rare, and therefore 
much sought in these hills. 

One day early in April, Karl made known to his 
kind host his desire to return to his home. A 
shade of sorrow crossed the grim features of the 
“Wild Boy” as Karl thanked him for his great 
kindness and explained his intention of leaving 
him. He did not answer, but silently led Karl 
to the entrance of the cabin, and stood, with a 


THe Hermit's Home 


93 


longing, sorrowful expression — the most intelli- 
gent he had ever been seen to show — as Karl 
walked slowly down the valley, leaving the hermit 
to the solitude of his mountain home. 

Karl had, no doubt, greatly over-estimated his 
strength, for, before he had tramped very far, he 
became terribly exhausted, and sank down upon a 
log by the stream. How long he sat there he did 
not remember; but, after a long rest, he aroused 
himself, and, peering far down the branch, he 
saw a lonely fisherman, skilfuly whipping the 
stream with his flies. He tried to call aloud but 
his voice failed him; then he stood up and franti- 
cally motioned until, at last, the man’s attention 
was attracted. Dropping his fishing rod, the 
man ran up the stream to Karl, who, to his amaze- 
ment, recognized him as none other than his former 
New Bergen rival — Helga Olson. 

The greeting was a genuine and hearty one. 
Helga assisted Karl over the rough, hilly ground 
and, by taking long rests, they were able at last 
to reach the log cabin of the old settler at the 
mouth of the Wild Boy. 

During the few days’ recuperation at this 
hospitable home, before starting for New Bergen, 
Karl related all his thrilling experiences of the 
winter; old Sammy Hull and Helga decided that 
Karl should direct them to the home of the hermit 
in the mountains, and, if possible they would 
induce him to give up his solitary life and take 
up a small farm on the East Fork. 


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Olea 


The next morning the three men drove as far 
as they could up the valley and then walked slowly 
up the branch to the secluded retreat. When 
they had encircled the cliff, sheltering the dingy 
cave-cabin, they found the logs of the hut still 
smouldering in ashes; the place was deserted, and 
no trace of the hermit could be found. With the 
mysterious secret of his life the “Wild Boy” was 
lost to the knowledge of the East Fork country 
forever. 


L’ENVOI 


S EBASTIAN paused as he finished his story, and 
together, in silence, we descended the moun- 
tain by the path leading down to the water, and 
across the valley to the old stone-house at Walhalla. 

A full June moon illumined the gloomy ruins of 
the castle above us, and shed a soft radiance over 
Kettle Creek’s mountains and streams. 

As we walked back to camp in the glorious moon- 
light, Sebastian told me, with something of pride 
and emotion, of the merry May wedding, of so 
long ago, which was celebrated at the quaint little 
Norwegian church below Oleona — almost in sight 
of the old castle where Karl and Olea had first 
learned to love under the charmed influence of the 
melody of Ole Bull’s violin. 

The festal 17th of May, 1857, was long held 
memorable by the remnant of the Norse colony, 
since the happy event of that day had at last 
brought so closely together all the Germans and 
Danes and Norwegians in Stewardson and Abbott, 
whose worthy descendants have preserved, till 
this day, the traditions and history of Kettle Creek 
lore. 

Perhaps, if ever Sebastian were questioned, he 
95 


would tell of more legends of Sinnamahoning, or 
tales of the old Susquehanna, — stories of pioneer 
history still cherished dear by Norse- Germans, 
long years after the fond dreams of empire have 
vanished away. 


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